


The Young Knights

by Soledad



Series: Sons of Gondor [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Denethor was a good father, F/M, Forlong is a good Lord of Lossarnach, Halabor Chronicles, Medieval Tournament, Old Folk of Gondor, Young Boromir is a fierce warrior, Young Faramir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 11:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 68,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10536000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: After finishing his training as a Swan Knight in Dol Amroth, young Lord Herumor, the Heir of Halabor, gets knighted in his kinsman Lord Forlong’s town. An Advent calendar for the Edhellond group in 2006. MEFAs 2007 - Men - 1st Place.





	1. Coming to Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Denethor’s sisters are mentioned in “The People of Middle-earth” but not given any names. Lady Ivriniel, Imrahil’s oldest sister is also mentioned there. Morwen, Lord Húrin’s daughter used to be a forerunner for Lothíriel and was supposed to marry Éomer – I kid you not!  
>  I must admit, I had great fun coming up with the various coats-of-arms for the Gondorian nobles. The whole “guess the shield” game reminded me how today’s children guess car types as a competition.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER ONE – COMING TO COUNCIL**

**[Minas Tirith, early summer in the year 2995 of the Third Age]**

Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth had become a rare visitor in Minas Tirith in the recent years. Ever since the death of his beloved wife, he had sent his only son and heir, Imrahil the Fair, in his stead to make longer journeys. The Lady Olwen, coming from an old and respected family of the Eredrim, the original people of Dor-en-Ernil, had not shared the Dúnadan longevity and passed away several years earlier. Adrahil did not like to leave the halls of Dol Amroth Castle, where her presence lingered still; he only came up to Anárion’s city for the annual Council meetings.

As early spring was the very time for aforementioned Council meetings, 13-year-old Faramir had been waiting anxiously for the arrival of his grandsire for days by now. More than in any other year, in truth; for not only was he looking forward to see the old Prince, whom he loved dearly, he had also known since _mettarë_ that when Adrahil returns to Dol Amroth after the Council, he would be going with him. For _a whole year_ , no less, to be given some polishing at courtly manners, ere he would begin his training as an esquire in the court of his own father. The sons of the Steward needed to get the best education possible, and the court of the Prince of Dol Amroth was undoubtedly the most refined in the whole realm – and beyond.

“I envy you not,” his brother, Boromir, now having reached full maturity and recently knighted, had said. “Uncle Imrahil is going to drag you on that ship of his ‘til you cannot even see food because of the seasickness; the Lady Tirathiel will torture you with dance lessons; Master Melpomaen will, no doubt, fill your head with old lore and Elvish poetry; and Master Andrahar will run you ragged on weapons’ training.”

“That may be true; but Aunt Nimrien is the gentlest and wisest person in Gondor, and Dol Amroth has the greatest library in the realm, so I shall be fine,” Faramir had answered solemnly, at which his brother had laughed and called him a hopeless bookworm, ere running off on some City business.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
But that had been two days ago, and now Faramir was sitting on top of the wall in the sixth circle, near the Houses of Healing, watching the road impatiently in the hope that he would get a glimpse of his grandsire’s entourage, soon. The silver trumpets had already greeted the Prince, down at the Great Gates, and the group of riders could now appear on the main road any moment. And indeed…

“There they are!” cried out Faramir in excitement, pointing at the impressive group of horsemen riding slowly upwards from the Gate. ‘Twas unusual of him to reveal his joy so publicly, but this was an unusual day, full of hope.

“There are many of them,” noticed his two-years-younger cousin, Morwen, who had been entrusted to his care in exchange for a leave from today’s lessons.

Well, to be truthful, Morwen was not his cousin but his _niece_ : the only daughter of Lord Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, who, in turn, was the only son of Lady Eledhwen, the Steward’s second-oldest sister. Yet due to the fact that the Lord Denethor was not only considerably younger than his sisters but had also married late, his sons were both a lot younger than his sisters’ children. And Húrin had wed his childhood love right after coming of age – thus Faramir had found himself in the awkward situation of a ridiculously young uncle. In fact, most of his cousins on his father’s side were almost a generation his seniors. To spare everyone the embarrassment and the need of long explanations, he had grown used to call all his nieces and nephews cousins – a custom those appreciated very much.

“There are more than just Grandsire’s people coming,” said Faramir; his keen eyes had spotted the banners of several Lords from the southern fiefs. “Do you recognize their shields from here?”

Morwen shot him an insulted look. Knowing the coats-of-arms of the noble lords was a popular game among the children of Minas Tirith – the more one could recognize, the greater respect he or she had among the other urchins. Granted, it was a game mainly played by boys, but being an only child, Morwen was carefully and thoroughly taught, just as a son would have been. She might be declared the head of her House one day, should Lord Húrin not father any sons.

‘Twas understandable then that she found Faramir’s question insulting and was eager to show her extensive knowledge in Gondorian heraldry. ‘Twas a matter of pride, after all, _not_ being bested by the Steward’s scholarly son!

Mayhap it was understandable, too, that she chose the easiest one for starters.

“Well, the silver swan on blue is the banner of Dol Amroth, of course,” she said in a lecturing manner that she must have picked up from her formidable grandmother. “And thus the troops in the silver-washed armour on the beautiful grey horses must be the Swan Knights of your grandsire."

“Oh, but that was too easy,” replied Faramir, annoyed that the girl had been sly enough to snatch that easy winner from before his nose. “ _Everyone_ knows the banner of Dol Amroth. Try something better!”

But Morwen shook her pretty head so vehemently that her long, sable tresses came free from the ribbons braided into them and cascaded down freely over her shoulders.

“Nay, ‘tis _your_ turn now,” she said. “Try _you_ to best me!”

“Very well,” Faramir carefully leaned forward a little to see better. “There. That rampant seadog on a turquoise shield. That is the coat-of-arms of Uncle Lorindol, the Lord of Lebennin.”

Morwen pulled a face. “That was not very hard, either; one should think that we know the arms of our own family. Although,” she added a little doubtfully, ”‘tis a strange creature for such an important lord to bear on his shield.”

True enough, the seadog _was_ a fairly bizarre creature. It had the head and the body of a dog, but the tail of a lion, webbed feet, silver scales covering its entire body, a row of webbed dorsal spikes, ears like a bat’s wings, and a long tongue. In fact, it looked more… cute than threatening. On the top of the shield, in a silver band, three towers could be seen, symbolising the three largest towns of Lebennin.

“Seadogs are the symbol of port towns and sailors,” replied Faramir, giving in to the urge to show off his knowledge. “There is a legend that such a creature had guided the ship of Uncle Lorindol’s ancestors safely into the harbour of Pelargir, after the fall of Númenor, when the Faithful were fleeing back to Middle-earth. The family has had this banner ever since.”

“I know _that_ ,” interrupted Morwen impatiently. “You are not the only one who has been taught family legends. My turn now.”

She climbed atop the wall next to him in her eagerness to spot a shield that would be more interesting, more of a challenge than the two before. Worried that she might slip in her excitement and fall off the wall, breaking every bone in her small body, Faramir grabbed her shirts, which earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs; yet he did not let go of her. He had been given responsibility for her safety, after all.

“Stop wriggling,” he warned her,” or I shall send you back to your mother with the guards.”

Said guards had been standing just a few feet behind them all the time. Children of the Steward’s family were not supposed to roam the city unprotected.

“Traitor,” Morwen stuck out her tongue at him. “You are just afraid that I might win. But I _will_ win anyway, so you can stop bothering me! See the black shield with the salient golden wolf upon it, and the three six-pointed golden stars on top? That is the emblem of Duinhir the Tall, Lord of Morthond Vale.”

Faramir could not help being impressed. Morthond Vale was not one of Gondor’s main provinces, even though its lord _did_ have a seat in the Council. Knowing the arms of such a relatively small House _was_ impressive.

Morwen noticed his astonishment and was properly insulted by it.

“Ha!” she said. “you think you can be the only one to know things? Mayhap I do not have my nose stuck in dusty old books all the time, but – unlike you – I have _friends_. And Duilwen, the daughter of Lord Duinhir, happens to be one of them.”

Morwen’s assumption that he would have no friends stung a little, but Faramir had to admit that his young cousin (well, _niece_ ) was much better suited to make friends. She was a pretty, easy-going girl with a quick wit; people usually liked her instantly. He, on the other hand, was quiet and withdrawn, and that made him a little lonely sometimes.

Although he had _Boromir_ as a brother, and who in Gondor could compete with _that_?

“All right,” he said, “you have a point on me. But the next turn is mine,” he studied the large group of travellers that was slowly drawing closer. “Oh, there! The black raven on the silver shield, with its beak open. The one with the long, red tongue and the tiny sable stars scattered all over the shield. I know that one. That is the coat-of-arms of Golasgil, the Lord of Anfalas.”

Morwen scrunched up her cute little nose. “’Tis not a pretty one. And his escort is quite small, too.”

“Anfalas is a poor province,” Faramir shrugged. “Only fisherfolk and a few hunters live there. Most people dwell in the green hills of Pinnath Gelin. Now there is a task for you: which one is the banner of Pinnath Gelin?”

“Ha!” cried out Morwen in triumph. “You thought you can make me back off, did you? You are _so_ mistaken! “Tis the passant silver _enfield_ on the green shield, with the blue waves of a river under its feet and the three white mountain peaks in the top band of the shield. I know my strange beasts just as well as you do!”

True enough, one needed to be well-taught in heraldry to recognize the _enfield_ , which was one of those imaginary beasts put together from the parts of several animals. It had the head of a fox (with a surprisingly friendly face), the lean body of a greyhound with a wolf’s bushy tail, and its front legs looked like an eagle’s shanks and talons.

“Although I find it better when there are real beasts on a shield, ones that you can find out in the woods or meadows,” added Morwen, after a moment of thought. “Or, at the very least, in old books. Like that green dragon with the red belly and red underwings. It seems almost alive – even if it is leaning on a harpoon, which is strange. What would a dragon need a harpoon for?”

Faramir gave the dragon-like creature, resting on blue waves with its curled-up tail, a look. It looked very pretty on the silver shield, but something was off with it.

“That is not a dragon,” he realized. “Dragons have four legs; this one only has two. “Tis a _wyvern_ , a creature supposed to live in great rivers or in the Sea – not that anybody had ever seen one. ‘Tis also considered a symbol of perseverance; the shield is the coat-of-arms of Angbor, the Lord of Lamedon.”

“I have never seen that one before,” admitted Morwen with a frown. She did not like being at disadvantage.

Faramir shrugged. “Lord Angbor rarely comes to Minas Tirith. Lamedon is a large province, and it needs its Lord’s presence and guidance… or so Boromir says. For my part, though, I believe that Lord Angbor prefers his wide country to our confining walls. I cannot say that I blame him for that.”

“Have you ever been to his chief town?” asked Morwen curiously.

“Not to Calembel, which is his seat and little more than a strong fortress watching over the ford of the river Ciril,” answered Faramir. “I have been to Ethring, though. ‘Tis the largest city of Lamedon, built on either side of the river Ringló, where the road from Morthond to Pelargir fords the stream. ‘Tis a walled city, the fourth-largest in the whole Gondor, after ours, Pelargir and Lord Forlong’s town in Lossarnach.”

“The one where the great summer and winter fairs are held?” asked Morwen.

Faramir nodded. “The very same. Ten thousand people live among its walls, and ten times the number during the fairs. ‘Tis said that Ethring alone could come up for all Lord Angbor’s needs.”

“He must be a wealthy lord indeed,” judged Morwen, watching he grim-faced escort of the Lord of Lamedon ride up the road in their shiny armour, sitting on great, noble horses.

“And a very faithful one,” said Faramir, remembering his father’s high praise of the man. It did not happen every day that the Steward would speak so highly of any Gondorian nobleman. Not even the ones he was related to.

 _Especially not the ones he is related to_ , thought Faramir with a wry smile. For although his father had always trusted Lord Húrin unconditionally, the sometimes tense relationship between the Steward and Imrahil of Dol Amroth could not stay hidden from the rest of the family. Not entirely.

But that was not something he would want to discuss with Morwen, even though she was family, too.

“Now,” he said, “there is but one banner left. If you can tell me what it is, that will make us even. Nay; that would make you win, as you are younger.”

“The guardant silver eagle on the sable shield?” asked Morwen dismissively. “’Tis easy – ‘tis the banner of Dervorin, Lord of Ringló Vale. What have I won?”

Faramir gave her an amused glance.

“I did not know there was a prize to win,” he said.

“There is _always_ a prize,” declared Morwen regally. Faramir laughed.

“Very well,” he said. “You may come with me when I get to greet Grandsire. Mayhap he has brought cousin Elphir with him.”

Morwen, who liked Elphir very much, squealed in delight. They slid from the wall and ran up to the Citadel, followed by the exasperated guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Little heraldic dictionary:**  
>  _Guardant_ is a heraldic animal facing the onlooker  
>  _Passant_ is a heraldic animal walking on all four feet  
>  _Rampant_ is a heraldic animal rearing on its hind legs  
>  _Salient_ is a heraldic animal leaping from the ground


	2. The Old Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adrahil’s condition was first mentioned in Isabeau’s “Kin-strife”. Liahan appears with her generous consent.  
> Several people pointed out – rightfully – that I have given Faramir’s degree of relation to Morwen mistakenly. To my defence, in Hungary, she would be called his niece (we don’t have the same terms, it seems) and that was what mislead me. I will try to correct it, as soon as I find a way to keep Faramir’s dilemma nevertheless. :)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER TWO – THE OLD PRINCE**

Prince Adrahil, widely respected monarch of Dol Amroth – in fact, the _only_ independent monarch with a demesne of his own within the borders of Gondor – was not a young man anymore. Although near eighty years did not count as an extremely high age among the nobles of Dúnadan descent (not to mention the thin trail of Elven blood in his veins) he showed every one of those seventy-nine years.

Part of the reason for his aging was his fragile health: he had caught one of those recurring Southern fevers in his youth and had suffered from it all his life, his condition slowly but gradually worsening with advanced age. The other reason was the loss of his beloved wife but a few years earlier – a loss that had turned the Prince’s hair to pure silver within a few moons.

As the years flew by, Adrahil had become less and less fond of travelling on water, and thus he had rather taken the stresses and strains of the long ride across Lebennin and Lossarnach upon himself instead of boarding one of Dol Amroth’s famous swanships. Besides, that way he could join with the escort of several other noblemen, which not only offered a safe travel but also the opportunity to discuss the affairs of the realm before the Council and to get support for his suggestions, in case he would be opposed by the Steward; that sometimes happened. Adrahil and Denethor had mutual respect for each other, but that did not mean they would never disagree. And _when_ they disagreed, it was always a tough fight, as they were both shrewd, strong-willed and well-informed men.

At the moment, though, the Council lay still several days before them, and the Prince felt great relief when they finally reached the townhouse of his family, up in the sixth circle of Minas Tirith. He had only taken a small escort with him: a group of six Swan Knights; his eldest daughter, the Lady Ivriniel, who wanted to see her nephews; Ornendil, his old weapons master, who had assigned himself as the Prince’s chief bodyguard ever since Andrahar had taken over his duties among the Swan Knights; Mánion, a young healer in his mid-twenties, who belonged to the folk of the Eredrim, like the Lady Olwen had; and a young page of a mere ten summers by the name of Liahan – an orphan of a noble but penniless family, whom Imrahil had taken under his wings.

‘Twas a time-honoured custom among the Princes of Dol Amroth to take such children into foster care, and Liahan proved to be a worthy choice. He was a quiet, sharp-witted, well-mannered child, quick to learn and eager to please, but he did not back off when confronted by bigger, stronger boys, either. He had done well in the three years he had spent in Dol Amroth, and thus Prince Adrahil decided that he had earned a short leave – and the chance to see Minas Tirith.

Even if the Lady Ivriniel spoiled him rotten during their journey.

Although, if any one was in peril to be spoiled, it was not Liahan who knew his place within the court all too well, but young Prince Elphir, the current Heir of Dol Amroth, Adrahil thought, amused. Of the so far three sons of Imrahil, Elphir, the firstborn, had always been his aunt’s favourite, and while his tutors were every bit as stern to him as it was needed for a future monarch to learn his lessons in proper time, Ivriniel often complained that the boy was too earnest for his mere nine years already and needed a little more pampering. Which she had done in abundance during the long journey, embarrassing the self-conscious Elphir to death and spoiling Liahan thoroughly in the process, too.

One good thing _had_ come out of Ivriniel’s efforts, though. Elphir and Liahan had become friends, which, the Prince thought, might prove a life-saving factor later on, once they had both grown into warrior age.

A small noise woke him from his pondering. Someone was knocking on the door. The Prince gestured to Liahan to answer it, and the young page obeyed – blushing profoundly when he found a girl on the other side of the threshold. A very pretty, dark-haired girl, whose rich attire revealed her noble origins. Yet the Prince’s eyes lay on the lanky youngling behind the girl; a youngling also way too serious for his age, in the customary dark clothes of the Steward’s family and with the clear, grey eyes of a dreamer.

“Faramir,” he said tenderly. “’Tis good to see you again, my boy. You have grown a great deal since last year.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Half an hour later, after Morwen had been sent to the chambers of the Lady Ivriniel to be reunited with Elphir, the Prince and his favourite grandson were sitting in the library of the townhouse. ‘Twas not much as libraries went, at least not while the family dwelt in Dol Amroth, but they kept calling it thusly nonetheless. They were having tea, served by the unobtrusive Liahan, and talked in great detail about the year that had just passed and about the one that was coming.

Needless to say that they were both more interested in the upcoming one – the one they will be allowed to spend together in Dol Amroth. Adrahil had been looking forward to this chance for years, but the Steward, loath to let his youngest go, had always found an excuse. Now, however, the Prince had put his foot down, and if Adrahil of Dol Amroth demanded something, not even the Lord Denethor would dare to disobey – unless he had a very good reason for doing so. Which, in this particular case, he had not.

“I fear I might have applied some undue pressure,” admitted the Prince ruefully. “Mentioning my fragile health and pondering about whether I would get another chance to have you with us for a year if I waited too long.”

Faramir’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Are you truly ill, Grandfather?” he asked, fearing the answer already. Adrahil laughed quietly.

“Nay, my boy; at least not any worse than I have been for quite some time by now. The truth is… I am old and tired. I want you with me as long as I can still enjoy your presence in Dol Amroth. But worry not; I shall be there for quite a few years yet.”

Faramir accepted the statement with a simple nod. He knew his grandsire would never lie to him, not even to spare his feelings. Besides, he was no longer considered a child – he would begin esquire training after his year in Dol Amroth, after all, and that was the first step for a boy of noble birth to become a man.

Still, he was thankful for the chance to stay with his mother’s people at the Sea for a year. Boromir had not been given the same chance, for he was the firstborn and thus the heir apparent for stewardship, therefore he had to begin preparing himself for his future task at a very young age. Faramir had been allowed to follow his interests a little longer: he had studied ancient lore with his tutors and been even given harp lessons. Sometimes being the second son _did_ have its advantages.

Which meant not that his father would go easy on him, of course; quite the contrary. The Lord Denethor had made it abundantly clear that Faramir was to become the strongest pillar of his brother’s rule: someone who would always be ready to supply the knowledge in lore if needed; to give counsel in diplomatic matters – or wield his sword on his brother’s side, if naught else would help. ‘Twas something Faramir would be willing and content to do, and sometimes it saddened him that he was still too young to be of any help, for either his father or his brother. Sometimes he would wish he could make time flow faster, so that he could become that strong pillar earlier.

At other times, however, he yearned for the chance to be just the young boy he still was. To be allowed to enjoy his beloved books, to not be burdened with the concerns of the realm, to be simply loved and pampered, without demands he always felt a bit inadequate to match. Sometimes he envied Boromir; his easy confidence, the way he grew with their father’s demands, seemingly without effort; for the pride that shone in Denethor’s eyes when looking at his Heir.

On the other hand, how could their father _not_ be proud of Boromir the Fair? He stood out from the young men of his age like a mighty young oak from mere saplings. Blooded in battle at the age of sixteen summers already, marvellous with the sword and invincible in any fight, not to mention shrewd and sharp-witted and easy-going… who could be better suited to make their father proud? Or take over the sceptre one day? Faramir, who had loved and admired his big brother for as long as he could remember, whole-heartedly agreed that no-one could fill Boromir’s place.

He certainly did not consider himself as a worthy substitute. His strengths lay elsewhere, and they both knew that. Boromir jokingly called him his ‘little scholar’, but that was a joke full of love and respect; not being a scholarly man himself (albeit forced through a proper education, of course), he admired Faramir’s easy way with old books and scrolls, his ever-growing knowledge, and made no secret of his pride in his younger brother.

Aye, they complemented each other nicely. Still, going to Dol Amroth for a year meant that Faramir would be allowed to be himself for a while. To be a child for one last time, unburdened and unconcerned among his younger cousins, to follow his interests with the help of his scholarly aunt, the lovely Lady Nimrien, or with Master Melpomaen, the Prince’s wise and knowledgeable librarian. To learn his way around ships and to get reacquaintanted with the Sea that his mother had loved so much. Dol Amroth had always been a place of undisturbed peace for him.

“Grandfather,” he said quietly, “I am glad that I can go with you. I have missed Dol Amroth very much.”

The old Prince gave him a fond smile, one that was meant for him alone.

“And we are glad to have you with us, my boy,” he answered. “Your uncle Imrahil is eager to see you again, and your aunt Nimrien cannot wait to peel you out of these dark clothes and clad you in proper Dol Amroth blue,” he laughed quietly. “She will, no doubt, have a whole new set of clothes made for you; so much you have grown recently. However, we shall not be returning to Dol Amroth at once.”

“We shall not?” Faramir’s eyes widened in excitement. The thought that he might get to see more of Gondor on their way was a very attractive one. “Where are we going first?”

“Have you ever been to Carvossonn, the chief city of Lossarnach?” asked the Prince.

Faramir shook his head.

“Nay; I have only ever been to Ethring and Dol Amroth,” he replied. “And to Pelargir, of course, when I was very little and mother was still with us.”

He regretted having said that when he saw the flicker of pain across Adrahil’s face. The untimely loss of the Lady Finduilas had hit them hard – all of them – and they usually avoided mentioning her. At least in the Steward’s house.

Adrahil, though, was not a man who would be ashamed by his own feelings.

“She loved the house in Pelargir,” he murmured, “despite the closeness of Umbar and the peril that came with that closeness. For it was also close to the Sea, and it eased her longing for home. Yet never doubt that she loved your father very much – or that she was loved just as much in turn. Denethor is a man who does not open his heart easily, not even to those who are dear to him. He might seem cold and distant, and sometimes he is much too hard to everyone. But he did love your mother; and he does love you as well, never doubt that.”

Faramir shrugged. “I know Father loves me,” he said. “He just loves Boromir more – can you blame him for that?”

“Nay, you are mistaken,” the old Prince said with emphasis; he did not want the boy to feel less worthy of their father’s love than his brother, even though Denethor, indeed, tended to be more… demonstrative in showing his fondness for his firstborn. “He loves both of you, each of you differently, according to your nature. That means not he loves you less. Your uncle Imrahil has three sons – do you believe he loves Elphir more than he loves Erchirion or Amrothos?”

“Uncle is… different,” answered Faramir carefully. Adrahil nodded.

“True enough. But he also had it easier than your father. He was never given the feeling that he would have to compete for the love of his father with a stranger.”

Faramir, who had heard whispered tales about the enmity between his father and the legendary Captain Thorongil, the one who had defeated the Pirates of Umbar, frowned.

“But that was long ago… before my birth, even,” he said.

“And yet the wounds are still hurting,” his grandsire said thoughtfully. “Ecthelion has planted a seed then, with the best intentions, no doubt, that can cause great harm yet in the future,” he stopped himself, realizing that he should not discuss such things with a half-grown youngling, and smiled at his grandson. “But let us not talk about such unpleasant things on such a fine day, my boy. You say you have not seen Lord Forlong’s town yet? Be glad then that we are going to visit that gorgeous place on our way home.”

“We are?” asked Faramir happily, forgetting about his father’s grief in the past. He had heard wondrous things about the ancient, walled town of Lord Forlong, and had been yearning to see its wonders with his own eyes for years.

His grandsire nodded and patted him on the arm.

“I have received an invitation from Lord Forlong to make our newest Swan Knight at his court,” he explained. “The request seemed… reasonable, as the young man who is to become a knight is Forlong’s kinsman, and as we are in the neighbourhood anyway. There is going to be a great tournament to honour the event – trust me, you will love it.”

And Faramir, who could already see with his mind’s eye the richly clad knights in their festive armours, with the ladies in their best attire, could hear the minstrels that could never be far from such festivities, nodded eagerly, with shining eyes, not doubting it for a moment.


	3. Fathers and Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might realize, I see Denethor and his relationship to his sons a bit differently than most. Feel free to disagree with me if you want – but allow me the freedom of a different approach.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER THREE – FATHERS AND SONS**

“Grandfather is making a Swan Knight in Carvossonn, instead of in Dol Amroth?” asked Boromir in genuine surprise. “Why would he wish to do suchly? And who is the knight-probationer who would make that request?”

His father, the twenty-sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor, was sitting thoughtfully behind the large desk of his study; a desk full of scrolls an books and detailed reports, yet impeccably ordered nonetheless. The Steward was a tall, pale man, with his dark hair liberally streaked with silver – at the age of sixty-four still in his prime, as noblemen of purely Dúnadan origins saw it, but perchance aged a bit early due to the concerns of the realm weighing heavily upon his shoulders. In his customary black robes, he offered a dignified – and quite intimidating – sight. At the moment, though, he was smiling at his firstborn with genuine fondness… an expression few people had got to see on his stern face during the recent years.

“Have you ever visited Halabor?” he replied with a question of his own.

Boromir shook his head. “Is that not the small, walled town near the Great River, opposite Cair Andros?” he asked.

“It is,” the Steward nodded. “Tis but a small town, yet it has seen better times – just like its lord who can count back his ancestors to one of the knights in the Lord of Andúnië’s household. Orchaldor is his name. He is but a few years older than I am, and though he has no seat in the Council and is sworn to the Princes of Dol Amroth, as all his ancestors have been for almost the entire Third Age, I have always found his insights useful. His only child, a late-born son, has been trained in your grandfather’s court and is about to become a Swan Knight.”

“He must be of my age, then,” said Boromir, “if he has begun esquire training at the proper time.”

“He has,” replied Denethor. “Perchance you have even met her during your visits in Adrahil’s court.”

Boromir shrugged. “I cannot remember,” he said, “Grandfather’s court is always full with young boys of noble families. But why would the ceremony take place in Carvossonn and not in Dol Amroth?”

“His mother was a cousin of Lord Forlong’s,” explained his father, “and Forlong’s court is fine enough for such an important feast. I assume Lord Orchaldor did not want to leave his town for the long journey to Dol Amroth, and his kinsman agreed to help him out.”

“Well, Carvossonn is certainly a worthy place,” agreed Boromir. “I visited it but once, but I felt like an ant in the shadow of its great walls and ramparts. Though it cannot be compared with our city, it is still a wondrous place.”

“So it is,” Denethor nodded. “And Lord Forlong chose to celebrate the knighting of his young kinsman with a tournament. Invitations have been sent to all young knights in the nearby provinces – including yourself.”

“I have been invited?” Boromir was honestly surprised, as the Steward’s dislike for such games was widely known all across the realm, and he had thought no-one would ever be so bold as to send _him_ an invitation.

His father treated him to a sarcastically arched eyebrow.

“Are you telling me that you would not make a worthy participant, my son? I should be very disappointed.”

Boromir rolled his eyes. His father’s jests had always had a very dry streak – so much that most people would never realize that the Steward was having fun.

“Ai, Father, I beg you! As if you would ever allow me to participate in such games! How often have you told me that I must take no unnecessary risks, like getting injured or even killed by such pointless brawls?”

“Not often enough, apparently,” replied the Steward in a placid tone. Taking a glance at his son’s disappointed face, he asked. “Would you truly wish to go?”

Boromir shrugged stoically. “Leave it be, Father. I have long ago accepted that there are things I cannot have, just because I am your son… and the Heir to your office.”

“That was not my question,” said Denethor dryly. “I asked you, if I am not mistaken, if you truly wanted to joust around before the eyes of a loud and probably unwashed crowd, throwing your fellow knights out of the saddle and end up badly bruised – all that without a sensible reason. I am still waiting for an answer.”

“The truth?” asked Boromir defensively, and his father nodded.

“The truth indeed. Why else would I ask?”

“All right, the truth,” Boromir licked his lips, his stomach fluttering; ‘twas not an easy thing to stand to something his father so obviously disapproved of. “The truth is that, yea, I would give an arm for a chance to go there and do just that. To compare my skills with those of Gondor’s best warriors.”

Denethor shook his head in mild dismay. Personally, he could not understand the attraction of the tournaments. In his eyes, they were naught but pointless risk-taking, with an outcome based much more on pure luck than on true skills – but the young knights apparently saw it differently. Even his own son, who should have known better.

On the other hand, even the Steward’s son deserved to have a leave every now and then. And it would have been fruitless to hope that Boromir would want to devote his spare time to lore, unless it was military tactics, the description of the great wars of past Ages or the deeds of Gondor’s kings of old. Denethor had all but given up hope to wake his eldest’s interest in the finer side of knowledge. Certainly, Boromir would learn anything he was told to learn – including Elven languages and poetry that were part of the education of young nobles – but naught beyond that. This saddened Denethor somewhat, as he was both, scholar and warrior himself, but it seemed that his sons had managed to divide those territories neatly.

“Very well,” he said with a small sigh. “Go then, if that is your wish. But expect no sympathy from me if you come back with a broken bone or two.”

Boromir’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise.

“You will let me go to the tournament?” he clarified, still barely able to believe his ears. Denethor nodded.

“And I expect you to do well,” he warned. “Lord Húrin chose to go, too, thus I shall be told about your performance.”

“I knew there had to be a catch somewhere,” Boromir mock-complained. In truth, he enjoyed the company of his much older cousin greatly. Although ‘outrageously young’ for his office, as some of the grizzled old councillors complained, Húrin the Tall, son of Barahir, was shrewd and well-versed in the ways of the court, and thus a great support for Boromir every time he had to face the Council.

“You shall be fighting for the honour of our House,” his father answered in tolerant amusement. “I need to make sure that our honour will be sufficiently defended, if I had to lower my standards and allow you to participate in the first place.”

“I thought cousin Húrin would be doing that,” replied Boromir, fairly amused himself.

“Not if he wishes to stay in my good graces, he shall _not_ ,” said the Steward, grim and stern again, all of a sudden. “He is a widower with a small child – he is not allowed to take any foolish risks. He may watch the tournament… naught else.”

“I doubt not that Aunt Eledhwen has already told him just that, in no uncertain terms,” laughed Boromir. The Lady Eledhwen was every bit as formidable as her brother, and – as the wife of the second-ranking official of Minas Tirith after the Steward himself – she had the sufficient authority to back her strong opinions. “Is she coming with us as well?”

Denethor shook his head. “Nay; Lord Barahir is in a bad shape and needs her on his side. Nor do I think she would wish to leave him alone for shallow merriment.”

Boromir nodded. Like everyone in the Steward’s family, the Lady Eledhwen had a very strong sense of duty. Ever since her aging husband had to hand over his office as the Warden of the Keys to their son, due to an unfortunate riding accident that left him all but crippled, she had barely left his side, becoming something like an hermit with him.

“I hope cousin Húrin will bring little Morwen, though,” he said. “Their house is too grim and silent for such a young child. She does need some merriment in her life. We should be thankful that she got over her mother’s death so well.”

“She was very young when the Lady Aerin died,” said Denethor, but the pain darkening his eyes revealed that he was not truly thinking of Morwen.

“Sometimes young children understand more than we would expect,” answered Boromir softly. “I am glad you allowed Grandfather to take Faramir to Dol Amroth, though. He, too, needs comfort that we cannot give him... we do not have healing hands. But Aunt Nimrien has a gift for healing broken hearts – and having one more child to take care of would be no hardship on her.”

“Faramir is not a child anymore,” said Denethor sharply. “At his age, you were well into weapons training already.”

“And I hated every moment of it,” replied Boromir, laughing.

“Nay, you did not,” his father corrected. “Your brother, though, is much less eager than you were. Perchance I was mistaken to allow him to pursue his own interests for this long. I should have tried to harden him up in time instead.”

Yet he looked more sad than angry, despite his cold manners – so sad, indeed, that Boromir’s heart went out to him. ‘Twas a rare thing that his father allowed him a glimpse behind that carefully schooled stewardly mask. That he would allow to be seen in one of his rare moments of weakness.

This immense gift of trust nearly overwhelmed him.

“Father, what is wrong?” he asked gently. “Why are you so loath to let him go to Dol Amroth? Surely not for your quarrels with Uncle Imrahil?”

“They shall pamper him like a baby,” replied Denethor, yet there was some bone-deep pain behind the seeming wrath of his harsh words. “Make him weak. Fill his head with outlandish ideas… bring him away from the path I have planned out for him. An honourable path, albeit not always pleasant. You know Imrahil not as well as I do, my son. He may be the brother of Finduilas,” his voice nearly broke while mentioning his wife, lost too young, too suddenly, “but he is naught like her, not at all.”

Boromir was truly frightened by his father’s outburst. Did Denethor truly doubt the loyalty of the Heir of Dol Amroth? Or that of his own second-born son? Or was this just the pain speaking, the pain over the loss of Finduilas he had always refused to speak of, and the fear that he might lose his younger son, too, if not to some illness then to someone more likable than himself?

“Father,” he said carefully, “you should not doubt that Faramir would never turn against you, no matter what might happen in the years to come. Never.”

“I wish I could be as sure about him as you are,” murmured Denethor. “As sure as I can be about you.”

Boromir accepted the compliment as it had been given: in face value. They both knew there was no power in Middle-earth – or beyond – that could make his loyalty towards his father waver. The only difference being that he was certain that the same would apply to Faramir, while his father, apparently, had his doubts in that area.

This saddened Boromir greatly, but he knew not how he could help this tormented man who carried the burden of an entire realm upon his shoulders. Denethor was a great man, a strong man, but in the end, he was only a man, like everyone else. The burden he was forced to bear would have tired out giants.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked quietly. He wanted to go, very much, in fact, but if his father needed his support, he would stay and not complain about it.

“Nay,” replied Denethor with a faint smile, laying his long, pale hand upon his firstborn’s forearm. “Worry not, I shall manage. You are still very young – go and be merry as long as you can. Life will catch up with you soon enough.”


	4. The Walled Town of Carvossonn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forlong’s town has been modelled after Carcassonne, the perhaps most gorgeous place of Medieval Europe. You should google on the Net for it to get a true impression, as words are not enough to describe its wonders.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER FOUR – THE WALLED TOWN OF CARVOSSONN**

A day after the Council had been adjourned, Prince Adrahil and his escort left Minas Tirith in the early hours of dawn for Carvossonn, the “Fort With Walls”, Lord Forlong’s chief city in Lossarnach. They had to ride about forty miles on the South Road, which still was in a fairly good shape, thanks to the conscious care both the Stewards and the Lords of Lossarnach and Lebennin had taken of it, so the company could hope to reach their destination before sunset.

Lord Húrin had joined them, and he had brought Morwen indeed, who remained with the Lady Ivriniel and Elphir all the way. Húrin, a tall, dark-haired, fair-faced young man who seemed a little too grave for his age – which was understandable, considering the burden of his office and the responsibility for a motherless child he had to bear – was pleased to have some undisturbed time with the Prince of Dol Amroth. Adrahil’s level-headed wisdom was widely known all over the realm, and Húrin used this chance to exchange tidings with him; tidings that could not always been discussed openly.

That was fine with Faramir, as thus he could ride with his brother all the way. They had not seen much of each other in the recent years. Boromir had begun esquire training at the age of twelve, two years earlier than any other boy, and he had served in the garrison of Osgiliath since he had turned sixteen, coming only home for the Council meetings, as he was supposed to learn that side of his future duties just as early on. Even though sitting at Council was not his most favourite duty, he had accepted the necessity, as he had always accepted everything his city – or his father – demanded from him. He was the Heir of the Ruling Steward of Gondor – his entire _life_ consisted of duty, just like that of his fathers and his grandfathers and all their forefathers before him had. He had learned to live with those demands; he had learned to _love_ them, considering it a privilege to serve his city and his people.

But Faramir had missed him badly, and he, too, had missed his little brother. Thus, being given the chance to spend some time together ere he would have to return to his duties was the most generous gift their father could have given them. Knowing how much the Steward disliked such tournaments, Boromir understood that his father’s leave was not an allowance to a brash young knight for a chance for some merriment. It had been the last gift of a childhood that had long been over for him and would soon be over for Faramir, too. A last chance to be together, unburdened, as it had been in happier times.

Thus they rode side by side all day, Boromir on his big warhorse, for he needed his best steed on the tournament, Faramir on his fiery little mare, save the sort rests their company made, mostly for Prince Adrahil’s sake – and they talked. Boromir told his brother about the life among the ruins of Osgiliath; about the fortifications they had made – and were still making – using the broken stones of that once so proud and beautiful city. About lonely watches during the night and hard work during the day. About patrols on the eastern bank of the Anduin, looking for Orc bands that had managed to slip by the watchful guards of Henneth Annûn; and the brutal fights when they found such bands. The life of a soldier was seldom truly glorious, no matter what the old songs might want to make one believe, and Boromir wanted his little brother to begin that life with his eyes wide open, in a year’s time from now.

In exchange, Faramir told him about the small events in Minas Tirith; about how he exceeded in his studies and how much he enjoyed harp lessons and how he was doing at weapons training. He shared with Boromir every bit of gossip he could remember and his joy about going to Dol Amroth. They talked about just everything and everyone – except their mother, whose loss still hurt them deeply, and their father, who remained a mystery for them both.

And suchly the day flowed by them almost unnoticed, ‘til the Road took a turn to the South-west, and about an hour before sunset, the destination of their journey appeared right before their eyes. Still far away, still not bigger than a molehill, but already clearly visible in its full grandeur. It was a sight that made Faramir forget what he was about to say. All he could do was to stare in open-mouthed awe. Even for him, who was used to the strength and magnificence of Minas Tirith, Forlong’s town seemed like the work of legendary giants – or that of the Valar themselves – rather than that of mere Men.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Carvossonn, built atop a cliff overlooking the ford where the South Road crossed the River Erui, was the oldest town in the entire Gondor. It had served as the seat and private fortress of the Lords of Lossarnach since the founding of the realm – and before. Currently, it was the chief city of Forlong son of Forlyn, the only one of the Gondorian nobles who had not descended from the Men of Westernesse but was entirely from the Old Folk of Gondor; from the people that had lived here during the entire Second Age, and perhaps even longer. This was also the place where the newest of the Swan Knights was going to be made.

It had been there long before any Númenórean ships touched the southern shores, looking down watchfully to the fertile lands of Lossarnach and protecting the people who had lived there and cultivated these lands, against all perils. It had always been a fortified town, due to its strategically important position, but had only become a true fortress after the Battle of the Crossings of Erui, nearly six hundred years ago.

That had been the decisive battle of the horrible Kin-strife that had torn Gondor apart, turning brother against brother, for the first, and, fortunately, the last time. The battle in which the hitherto deposed King, Eldacar, had finally defeated the forces of the usurper Castamir. There had been a great fight at the fords of the Erui, in Lebennin, and much of the valour of Gondor had perished on that grievous day. But it had brought the long-awaited peace again, as Castamir had died in that battle, and Eldacar had finally been able to restore the rightful Line in the year 1447 of the Third Age.

As always, the Lords of Lossarnach had fought on the side of the rightful King in that battle. And though the fighting had happened in safe distance from his own town, the Lord had come to the decision that Carvossonn needed further fortifications. After all, the enemy had been beaten but not eliminated. The Corsairs of Umbar still represented a serious threat, as it showed later.

They had built on the town for more than forty years. A whole generation had been born and grown old `til they finished the work. But when they finished at last, Carvossonn had no reason to fear the comparison with any other town in Gondor – not with Pelargir, not even with Minas Tirith itself.

In the year 1492, when King Aldamir and his whole court came to the festivities held for the finishing of that great work, with all his knights and captains, Carvossonn offered a unique sight, even for those the eyes of whom were used to wonders made by men's hands. The two rings of walls protecting the town formed two miles of battlements atop the cliff on which it had been built, and a total of fifty-two towers rose protectively above the walls, from the lower town up to the castle.

The inner wall, built before the Kin-strife but strengthened and extended greatly, measured more than four thousand feet in length and had twenty-five watchtowers. The outer wall, with seventeen newly erected watchtowers, measured nearly five thousand feet.

Four gateways allowed entrance though the outer wall, all four of them protected by a barbican of their own: an outwork of semi-circular shape, built of huge blocks of unhewn stone. The barbicans had vertical slots cut into them, enabling the gate guards to shoot attacking enemies without being shot at.

The southern part of the town – particularly endangered by the Corsairs of Umbar who kept sailing up the Anduin in those days to raid the towns and farmsteads – had special protection. A great tower, called the Tower of the Rollo, had been erected on the southwestern bow of the outer wall to strengthen the defences on this most vulnerable side.

This tower was practically independent from the rest of the fortress. It had its own well and furnace and could easily resist the attacks of an enemy that outnumbered its guards by ten to one. For the Tower of the Rollo had its own guards – an elite company, founded by King Aldamir himself, to ensure the protection of the town and the castle. This was the only company allowed to use the name of Tower Guards, aside from the guards of Minas Tirith's Citadel.

“The Tower Guards are most beloved by the townsfolk as they have frequent dealings with the common people, unlike the Castle Guards,” Boromir explained his little brother, when they had come near enough to see smaller things than just the walls and towers themselves. “During the centuries, it has become tradition that the Tower of Rollo would be the place to choose the Fair King who then “rules” the covered grain market and the adjoining open marketplace during the weeks of summer fair. We are fortunate, indeed, that Lord Forlong chose a time for the tournament when the summer fair, too, takes place. We might watch that merry ceremony first; ‘tis said that it goes with a lot of singing and dancing.”

“There is a wooden falcon, fastened high up on the tower,” said Faramir, narrowing his eyes against the rays of the setting sun. “Does it have any purpose?”

“Oh, yea, very much so,” replied Boromir with a smile. “’Tis the main target for the archery contest; the competitors, who had to wait for their go outside town in the so-called Camp of the King, have to shoot at it with bow and arrow.”

Faramir, already remarkably good with aforementioned weapons for a boy of his age, took another, measuring shot at the wooden bird.

“’Tis a difficult shot,” he decided. “I would still like to try my hand at it, though.”

“Alas, only men of Carvossonn are allowed to compete,” said Boromir, regretting to spoil his brother’s excitement. “But the spectacle attracts onlookers from all across Lossarnach and beyond. Sometimes even the wandering Elves make a halt on their way home to Edhellond, to watch the competition and join the merry feast afterwards.”

The fact that not even Elves were allowed to compete comforted Faramir a bit, and they continued their way through the lower town, which lay between the outer and the inner walls. Aside from the covered market and the open marketplace around it, it also had a manufactory, where members of the weaver's guild worked together and taught their art; a herbarium, where the herb masters dried and grinded the many herbs Lossarnach was so famous for; furnaces and smithies; whole streets with guild houses and workshops, orchards and gardens and stables… even the inhabitants would have been hard-pressed to count everything together.

A frequently sought-after place was the famous falconry, near the western gate of the lower town. People from all Gondor came to buy a well-trained hunting falcon from the Lords of Lossarnach, but few nobles could afford such a magnificent bird. They were usually worth their own weight in gold. The falcon masters, however, often graced the onlookers with splendid performances on the Lord's hunting fields outside town, demonstrating the skills of the birds.

“Usually, there is such a spectacle during the summer fair,” Boromir remembered. “I believe Lord Forlong would want his guests to be shown the skills of his birds. You may get a chance to see them yet.”

“Have you ever wanted to have a falcon, just for yourself?” asked Faramir, his wistful voice revealing how much he longed to own one of those wondrous creatures.

“Of course I have,” Boromir laughed. “Who would not? But I never had the time to go a-hunting as other young noblemen do. That poor bird would have died in its mews ere I found the time to train with it properly.”

“Father would never have denied you something like that, though,” said Faramir thoughtfully. Boromir shrugged.

“Mayhap not; mayhap he would. After all, what would I do with a hunting falcon in Osgiliath? Or in any other garrison? Nay, ‘tis better for the poor birds to have masters who could actually care for them. But let us hurry up, little brother; grandfather and the others have nearly reached the upper town, and it would do us no good to get lost ere we had even arrived.”

Between the lower and the upper town, there was no other path than the Old Bridge – a stone bridge of twelve arches across the River Erui. It was a surprisingly graceful structure, compared with the other buildings of the town, adorned with fine railings and flanked by sideways, so that people could walk across on foot, without colliding with carriages or riders.

The bridge was divided in two by a stone arch based on an upstream and downstream cutwater, which marked the border between the peoples of the upper and the lower town. Messengers of other towns had to wait on this spot, under guard, until they were led to the upper town – unless, of course, they were already known and held trustworthy by the Tower Guard. A huge headblock protected the bridge-head on the left bank, while on the other side it was connected to the fortress defences through a line of flanked curtain walls.

The Prince as his company were allowed into the upper town immediately, of course, and thus they followed the access path that led from the Bridge directly to the inner wall that encircled the upper town. This wall had only one entrance: a strong gate, accessible over a drawbridge alone and flanked by two strong, semi-circular towers that were not part of the watchtower circle but strongholds of their own. Above the arch of the gateway, in a graceful niche, a very old, withered stone statue watched – the image of an ancient goddess from the indigenous people of Lossarnach, by the name of Nurria, the Lady of the Pastures, whose original function had long been forgotten. Yet the townsfolk still swore by her name, and most people agreed that she was their protector, so the Lords of Lossarnach found it better to make allowances in this matter.

Above the upper town, which contained the houses of the local nobles (for the times they spent in town at all), the garrisons and armouries, the treasure chambers and the houses of healing, rose the Castle of the Lords of Lossarnach like a warning fist. Again, it was a fortress on itself, dating back to the time of the Kin-strife. Rectangular in shape, the Castle was flanked by a square tower above its front gate and by eight semi-circular towers in regular distances around its own protective wall. The gate had its own protective barbican, and the whole castle was encircled by a deep fosse.

There could be no doubt about the fact that Carvossonn had been built for strength and protection. And yet there was much beauty in its strength, in the harmony of sturdy walls and squat towers, arched passages and balcony-like walkways high upon the bulwark. The town itself had a definite likeness to its inhabitants, the great majority of whom descended from the ancient people of Lossarnach and wore the looks of their ancestors, despite the mingling with the Dúnedain in all those centuries. They were sturdy, swarthy, the men heavily muscled and bearded, the women voluptuous and fertile like the soil under their feet, both genders usually brown-eyed and dark-haired and with the tendency to put on weight rather quickly.

They were also good-natured, hard-working people, slow in anger, but dangerous when their anger finally arose. They were also the most faithful subjects of the Kings – and later the Stewards – of Gondor, aside from the people of Dol Amroth, and therefore highly valued in Minas Tirith.

As the Prince’s company slowly rode up to the Castle, the people on the streets waved at them cheerfully, greeting them in their own, heavily accented version of the Common Speech. They seemed happy to see them, happy to have such an exciting event as a knighting and a tournament in their town, beyond the annual summer fair that was due at the same time, and content with their simply lives.

Mayhap, thought Boromir wryly, nudging his absolutely charmed brother forward, _not_ having any Dúnadan blood at all made people happier, after all.


	5. The Lord of Lossarnach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit that Lord Forlong has been my favourite Gondorian nobleman since I first read The Books, back in the 1970s. He is the – astronomically rare – proof that a fat character does not need to be stupid, cowardly, clumsy or the token comic relief, regardless what the modern media tries to make us believe. That one does not have to be young, slim and pretty to be a hero. I always imagined Forlong a Falstaff-like figure (at least in peacetime); one who is open-minded, generous and great fun to be with. Imagine him as played by **[Brian Blessed](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Blessed)**.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
**CHAPTER FIVE – THE LORD OF LOSSARNACH**

Up close, the Castle of the Lord of Lossarnach seemed even huger, more forbidding than it had from the distance. It was hard to believe that any foe might break these immense walls or these towers that seemed to have grown from solid rock entirely on their own. High up on the square gate tower, the banners of Lord Forlong flattered: black shields on a green flag, the shield divided by a triangular green band, much paler in colour than the flag itself, with a silver boar’s head in the middle that seemed to glare at the onlooker threateningly. Small silver images of the Rose of Lossarnach framed the black shields.

The same coat-of-arms could be seen embedded in the huge wings of the gate, in the size of grown men; also, the guards wore it upon their shields and the breast of their surcoats. The mail shirts of the guards were made of polished steel, and their weapons very apparently came from the forge of an excellent weaponsmith. There could be no doubt that the Lord of the Castle was a wealthy and important person.

As soon as the company of Prince Adrahil reached the Gate, the sound of silver trumpets greeted them, announcing their arrival to the Lord of the Castle that way. The guards bowed deeply, their broad, bearded faces splitting into delighted smiles, and they tossed the heavy oak gate wings open, without being asked or ordered to do so. _Everyone_ in Gondor recognized the blue banner with the white swanship; and besides, they had been expected and joyfully awaited.

On the courtyard, the seneschal of the Castle came with a small army of grooms and servants to greet them and to take care of them. Their horses were led away to the stables, and the seneschal, a richly clad, bearded man in his early forties, led them up to the keep, where the chambers of his Lord could be found, mentioning in passing that the guest quarters had already been prepared for them and that their bags would be taken there in a moments. First, however, the Lord and the Lady wished to meet them and to have the welcoming cup with them.

Thus they were led to the Great Hall of the Castle; a place where the Lord had the meals with his household and held council with his vassals. It was also the place where he could welcome such large groups of honoured guests. ‘Twas a very large hall and a very old one, but kept surprisingly clean – mayhap due to the fact that the great hearth in the middle was heated from the adjoining kitchens and the smoke left through a thick chimney in the samesome kitchens, instead of spreading all over the hall.

As it was near sunset already, the long tables had been laid shortly before, waiting for the dinner to be served. The Lord and the Lady of Lossarnach entered through the back door that led to their private chambers, at the same time as the guest were led through the front door by the usher.

Forlong son of Forlyn, the current Lord of Lossarnach, was not very different from the rest of his people. He was a man of wide shoulders and enormous girth, with a round, bearded face and large, twinkling brown eyes. His dark brown locks were shorn over his shoulder, in true warrior fashion, and his neatly trimmed beard, too, was shot with grey – he had just passed his forty-fifth year last winter, but not being of Dúnadan blood, his age clearly showed. Yet the small wrinkles in the corner of his eye revealed that he laughed often and easily in all these years, and a slight smile that never left his lips – well, almost never – spoke of contentment and a fulfilled life.

Accordingly to his rank and status – he was third among the most powerful men in Gondor, after the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth – Forlong wore a calf-length, pleated tunic of dark blue cotton damask, edged with the finest, reddish-brown squirrel fur. The tunic had bag sleeves, slit from the elbow to the shoulder, so that he could put his arms through the richly embroidered vertical slits rather than through the narrow wrist openings, without wrinkling the equally bag-shaped sleeves of his fine, white shirt. Tiny silver mounts decorated the left sleeve of the tunic, scattered across the blue cloth like tiny stars on the night sky. The dark leather belt that miraculously held the tunic under his impressive belly, was adorned with small, oval silver plates, each featuring the Rose of Lossarnach. Matching breeches and silver-embroidered shoes that he only wore indoors fulfilled the picture of wealth and dignity that he offered his companions.

Other Gondorian nobles, especially those of Minas Tirith who fancied themselves pure-blooded Dúnedain, often made the mistake to see naught but an unhewn soldier in Forlong, based that foolish judgement on his appearance only. They thought that just as his features lacked the chiselled elegance of Dúnadan origins, his mind would be dull as well. They more or less expected him to be uncomfortable in fine clothes and to prefer the rough garb of a common soldier.

Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Forlong greatly enjoyed all the pleasantries that his status and his considerable wealth could offer. He loved good food, strong wine, loud music and nicely shaped women, that much was certainly true. But he also had a shrewd mind, which made him a very successful negotiator, an avid interest for strategy and economy; he collected old maps and spoke four languages aside from Westron, including the most common Haradric tongue and the peculiar dialect of the Dunlendings, which came handy at times. He also knew a lot about herbal lore and played reasonably well a kind of cornet also known as the "serpent".

His other favourite pastimes contained hunting, both with falcons and hawks, gambling (he preferred the Rohirric board game _hnefatafl_ ), sparring with his guards and even dancing. He spent a considerable amount of his time with his children, especially with his only son who just reached his second year.

Unlike her husband, the Lady Almaren came _not_ from the Old Folk. She hailed from Pelargir and was of Dúnadan blood, mayhap even with some Haradric ancestors somewhere up her family tree, if her jewelled black eyes and bluish black hair were any indication. She was related to the Ciryatur, the Harbour Master of Pelargir, and she was Forlong’s third wife; fifteen years his junior. She had born the Heir to the Lord of Lossarnach a mere two years ago, after having waited and hoped fruitlessly for many long years. She was clad in black and silver, in the fashion of the nobles in Pelargir, her hair hidden under a cap of silver lace, adorned with small, white jewels. Although slim and lovely, there could be no doubt that she would be her husband’s equal in every thing that mattered.

Two other, even younger women followed the Lord and the Lady, both in their early twenties. One of them had golden hair and blue eyes, possibly doe to some Rohirric blood in her veins, a round, pretty face and an easy smile. The other one was somewhat shorter and more slender, dark-haired and grey-eyed, but otherwise with the usual traits of the Old Folk. Both wore rich clothes, one in dark blue, one in mauve, and a distinct similarity between them showed that they had to be related somehow.

“My Lord Prince!” Forlong said, extending a beefy arm to Adrahil for a warrior’s greeting. “Welcome to Carvossonn! Your presence honours my humble home.”

“The honour is all mine,” replied the Prince, and he meant it. The most important representative of the local nobility, Forlong was a force to be considered; and his unwavering loyalty had earned him the respect of every other nobleman in Gondor. “I assume you remember my daughter, the Lady Ivriniel?”

“Who could forget a lady of her wisdom and fortitude?” Forlong kissed her hand gallantly. “I trust that you and my wife shall find many things of mutual interest to discuss.”

“Oh, we certainly shall,” said Princess Ivriniel, smiling. “As well as with the young ladies here… your daughters, I presume?”

“Indeed, they are,” replied the Lord of Lossarnach with paternal pride. “My eldest, Madenn, whom we call Malinalda(1), for she is the first golden-haired child ever born to our family; and Achren, my second-born, named after my mother.”

Adrahil knew that Forlong had a daughter, born out of the wedlock, and one born within, from his late second wife who had come from the local nobility, too. Now, seeing the golden beauty of Madenn, ‘twas easy to guess which was which – and which one was the apple of Forlong’s eye. Some men tended to privilegize their love children, more so if they were pretty, which Madenn most definitely was.

And yet the eyes of young Lord Húrin rested upon the face of Achren a little longer; not too obviously, but with genuine interest. And a good thing it was, Adrahil decided. Húrin had grieved long enough; the house of the Warden needed a new lady, little Morwen needed someone to take over that tasks of her mother – and Húrin himself was still too young to live the lonely life of a widower. Perchance this tournament would bring more than just the making of a new Swan Knight.

“And how is old Lady Achren doing?” asked the Prince, missing the resolute mother of Forlong from the picture.

The Lord of Lossarnach shrugged. “She is getting old – yet her wit is just as sharp as it has always been.”

“So is her tongue,” added the Lady Almaren sweetly, but her jewel-like eyes glittered.

Forlong shrugged again, apparently not particularly worried about the domestic struggles among the ladies of his House.

“’Tis the privilege of the old to seek – and find – failure in the young,” he said good-naturedly. “In the end, ‘tis I who has the last word in household matters anyhow.”

“’Tis hard to believe sometimes, seeing how often my Lord gives in to her,” said the Lady Almaren primly, and the two daughters exchanged agreeing looks behind their father’s broad back. Whatever they might think about their foster mother, they very obviously agreed with her when it came to their grandmother.

Lord Forlong himself, however, was an old-fashioned man who still followed the ways of the Old Folk. Including the custom tat considered the oldest matron of the clan as the highest authority. Albeit sometimes tired of his mother’s meddling with his life, he would never think of disregarding her opinion or refusing to listen to her.

“When _you_ are old enough to become the matron of your clan, you may terrorise the young ones of the family, too,” he replied to his wife and daughters. “Mayhap then you shall understand my mother a little better. Now,” he added, turning to the Prince again, “let us sit down to evening meal, my most honoured guests. You have a long way behind you and need to eat and to rest. My chatelaine,” he glanced at a plain, brown-haired woman in the background, “will see that bathtubs will be brought to your chambers ere you retire for the night.”

The Prince thanked for the offer, and they sat down to the Lord’s table indeed. The household of the Castle filled in and took their places at the long tables, further down in the Hall. Musicians came to entertain the guests during the evening meal, which was every bit as rich and refined as the Prince’s own table, back Dol Amroth. It contained four courses and such delicacies as _cameline meat brevet, broth of Rohan_ , roasted capon with mixed fruits, venison roasted with bacon, beef and chicken pie, _sprouts of life_ and honey cakes in rose petal sauce. There were also selected wines and tasty ale and hot cider to drink, and red and white grape juice for the children who were too young to drink wine yet.

Unlike in the formal halls of Minas Tirith, the Lord, his family and his household ate with healthy appetites. Well, with the exception of the Lady Almaren who _did_ seem a bit uncomfortable, truth be told – apparently, the long years spent in this very Castle as Forlong’s spouse had not been enough to get her used to the table manners that were accepted here. Seeing the others’ careless manners, after some initial hesitation Faramir and Morwen followed their example, digging into the food with gusto.

Liahan, who was freed from his duty to serve the Prince on this evening, sat with them – and with little Prince Elphir – watching his surroundings with big, serious eyes, trying to brand as many details as possible into his memory. Oh, how would the other pages in Dol Amroth envy him! Not only had he got to travel with the old Prince, whom everyone loved and admired at court, he was also allowed to sit at the table of Lord Forlong, as if he were a member of the Prince’s family! He was so focused that he almost forgot to eat.

A hand touched his shoulder lightly, and he looked up, right into the smiling face and the cornflower-blue eyes of the golden-haired Madenn.

“Eat and rest well, my little knight,” she said, laughing, “for in the morn I shall wake you early; you and all the others. We are going to visit the summer fair, ere all those grim Lords with their big warhorses would trample down everything in their way.”

Liahan shot the old Prince a begging look, not certain that he would be allowed to go with the other children. He was a page, after all, he had duties. But Adrahil had mercy with him, seeing the longing upon his much too serious little face.

“She is right, you know,” the Prince said. “The fair is much better to explore in good company. Your duty will be to keep an eye on Prince Elphir for me, as I am too old already for such bold adventures.”

Liahan’s heart was so full of love and gratitude that he could not utter a word; else he would have burst into tears. Instead he kissed the hand of the old Prince thankfully, his shining eyes speaking clearly of his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) _Malinalda_ = Golden Tree  
>  (2) _Sprouts of Life_ are actually Brussel sprouts
> 
> Forlong as played by Brian Blessed:
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/000099th/)  
> 


	6. A Summer Fair with Hidden Treasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madenn is “played” by Miranda Otto, who played Éowyn in the movies. I did not find her particularly convincing in that role, but she would make a lovely Madenn.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER SIX – SUMMER FAIR WITH HIDDEN TREASURES**

As she had promised on the previous eve, Madenn indeed came for the children in the next morn, to take them out to the horse-fair. This was a place, rather than an event, although many a Rohirric horse-breeder came to the annual summer fair of Carvossonn, to offer their wondrous beasts for potential buyers.

After an early breakfast, Madenn took off with Faramir, Morwen, Liahan and Elphir, accompanied by two sturdy members of Lord Forlong’s House Guard. Not that she would have to fear aught in her father’s town. In the eyes of the Old Folk a daughter was a daughter, no matter if she was born in or out of wedlock, and Madenn enjoyed the same love and respect from her father’s subjects as her sister Achren. Mayhap even more, as her mother had been a woman of common birth, one of their own. The guards only came to protect the children from being trampled down in the merry crowd – and to show the Prince in what high esteem he and his entire family was being hold in Lossarnach.

Faramir had loved fairs all his life and was now excited to see a foreign one, not always just the one held in Minas Tirith at springtime. He had tried to talk Boromir into coming with them, but his brother had only laughed and replied that the places _he_ was going to visit on the fair were not meant for young boys. Or for young girls, for that matter.

Thus the children went with Madenn and the guards, down to the great, open space of the horse-fair; a flat, green triangle covered with grass, outside the walls, along the River Erui from the bridge to the enclosure where the tournament was to take place within the next days. Although the fair had not been officially opened yet, there were booths already seaming the place, and where the South Road veered towards Pelargir. There was also a newly-erected wooden jetty downstream from the bridge, to offer the merchant ships an easy mooring place – for by river, by road, afoot or on horses, carts or mules, traders of all kinds were already making their way to Carvossonn. This was one of the most important annual fairs of Gondor, save from those held in Ethring, and no merchant in his right mind would miss it.

And not only merchants were drawn to the fair like moths to the flame. Noblemen- and women, lordlings, knights and commons from the entire province flocked to the city, to take up residence in the inns or the townhouse of their family for the weeks of the fair Most goods they needed for their daily lives they had grown, bred, brewed or woven or spun in their homes or bought on the homely markets, all around the year. But a couple of times in every year they came to Minas Tirith or to Carvossonn, Ethring or even Halabor, to buy the silk and damask cloths, the fine wines, the rare spices or preserved fruits, the gold and silver works, gemstones, crystals and all the other treasures that one could only find on the greatest fairs, for a mere few day in each year.

To the great fairs came merchants from as far as Linhir or Pelargir in the South and Esgaroth, the legendary town of the Northmen at the Long Lake. Wines from Dorwininon were shipped down the Great River and then up the Erui to Carvossonn; shearers came with the wool-clip from the far corners of Lebennin and Lossarnach itself, and clothiers from as far as Linhir with the most fashionable gowns, jerkins, mantles and suchlike. Among the foreign merchants even some olive-skinned, hawk-faced Haradrim could be seen; or mercers from Khambaluk, who looked like polished statues of bronze; or spice merchants from Khand, whose faces were dark like burned ash and who were colourful stripes of cloth wrapped around their heads.

Most of the horse-fair was marked out in lots for stalls and booths, and as the vendors came flooding in, by whatever means of travel, the clerks of the city provost were standing by to guide pedlars and traders to their places… and to collect the tolls, according to the amount of wares they had brought. A copper piece for a modest load, carried on the vendor’s own back; a silver piece for a horse-load; two to four silver pieces for a cart-load, depending on the size of the cart; and higher fees, starting with one gold piece, for the goods unloaded from the river barges that were tied up to the wooden jetty. The place was full of life, noise, scent and colour, and Faramir, who rarely saw aught else than the sombre serenity of the Steward’s House, watched the spectacle with growing excitement.

Madenn seemed excited, too – which woman would not be excited when there was a fair in town and many fine things to buy – and people who recognized her at once from her heavy sheaf of golden hair, greeted her in a friendly manner and offered treats to the children; the honey-makers and the fruit-sellers, who had their stalls around the edge of the horse-fair, before everyone else.

Soon, they all had sticky fingers from the honeyed seed cakes, and Elphir even had honey smeared all over his face, despite Liahan’s efforts to remove it with the help of a fine cloth he always carried with him for that very same purpose. As a rule, Prince Adrahil was a patient man who easily overlooked the failings of small children, but he could become very… vocal if his pages showed up in a dishevelled state. Liahan had learned right after his arrival to Dol Amroth to always have a cloth and a comb in his belt, just in case.

Unfortunately for him, he had no sufficient authority over Prince Elphir who seemed to find his delight in getting as dirty as it was possible for a nine-year-old. On a fair, those possibilities were disturbingly numerous, and Liahan was getting more anxious by the minute, fearing how he was going to explain his Lord the little Prince’s admittedly foul state.

“Fear not,” encouraged him Faramir, seeing his anxiety and understanding him all too well; he had to satisfy a father with very high demands, after all. “We shall dump him in a fountain ere going back. That will take care of the filth he seems so very fond of.”

Elphir squealed in righteous outrage, but Morwen and Faramir just laughed at him, and in the end, Madenn had to intervene ere the Prince would begin to bawl in earnest. She reminded them that they all had received a handful of coin from the old Prince to spend it on whatever they wanted – and verily, even Liahan had – so if they wanted to be back in time for midday meal, they needed to begin to look for something to buy.

That reminder distracted Elphir nicely, as he had wanted to buy presents for his parents and siblings, for Master Andrahar whom he considered as some sort of gruff uncle, and Master Melpomaen, the head librarian of Dol Amroth, whom he considered a fatherly friend. Thus the peril of a loud and unsettling scene was successfully banned, and Madenn herded them towards the middle of the horse-fair, where the richest merchants had their booths, and where they could hope to find small trinkets, worthy for a princely household.

They left the riverside, where the barges were unloading and unbaling on both sides of the jetty; the Erui ran deep and still enough for the season so that even boats of deeper draught than usual could make the passage without mishap. Strolling deeper into the great, open triangle of the fair, they came into the very middle of haggling and jesting and quarrel… and merriment. There stood the more elaborate booths that could be closed and locked, supplying shelter for their holders – unless they chose to sleep on their barges, leaving a servant or two to guard their goods. These always arrived first, to find the best place for themselves, and one could hope to find valuable little things before the fair had begun in its full.

The traders from Lebennin had brought their own trestles and light roofs, while the small country vendors from Lossarnach itself simply spread their wares on blankets, right on the ground between the booths, collecting everything they could not sell during daytime ere retreating for the night. As it was still relatively early in the morning, there was barely enough place left for the buyers to make their way between the stalls.

‘Twas the booth of a glove-maker that caught Madenn’s eye first. Even though the season was too hot to wear gloves at the moment, she apparently had the cold of winter on her mind already, for she spent a fair amount of time choosing the right pair: a perfumed blue set embroidered with small white and golden flowers. She also wished to buy some fine spun wools to weave the new gowns for her two-year-old brother, whom the guest had not got to see yet.

The younger children got bored and sneaked over to the toy-maker’s booth, with the two guards keeping a sharp eye on them. Wondrous things there were displayed on the counter: various animals, carved of wood and painted in bright colours; dolls in tiny gowns that would make a princess proud; board games of many kind, from chess to the more confusing ones the Rohirrim liked to play so much. Morwen was mesmerised by the beautiful dolls at once, while Elphir was trying to decide which carved animal would be the most suitable gift for his loved ones, and Liahan was eyeing one of the wooden soldiers with longing: a Fountain Guard of Minas Tirith in full regalia, including the winged helmet.

Faramir got separated from them somehow, and he had lost sight of Madenn as well. Yet he had no mind for worrying about that at the moment; one of the other booths drew him on magically, plain as simple though as it seemed from afar. ‘Twas the booth of a silversmith, who not only offered pretty jewellery – which was of no interest for Faramir – but also some books: small ones, meant to be carried in belt pouches, bound in leather and adorned with intricate silverwork and little gems.

They were apparently meant to be sold for the value of their covers, but it was the books within that piqued Faramir’s interest. He just _had_ to take a look at that which was hidden inside! At first the silversmith shot him an alarmed look – who could blame him for being worried about a lanky thirteen-year-old fingering his precious wares with hands that might or might not be clean? – but a second look at the White Tree upon the breast of Faramir’s tunic calmed him down. Even if the boy damaged the books, he could expect to be compensated princely.

Faramir had no intention to harm the books in any way, of course. He wiped his hands clean in a fine handkerchief ere touching them at all, and even after that, he barely touched the gilded edge of each leaf when turning it over. His feelings had not mislead him, it seemed. These were rare treasures indeed. 

One was an illustrated pocket copy of _The Lay of Leithian_ , written on red parchment with silver ink, in the fashion of Elves, and in Quenya, no less – a language Faramir had been taught but was still struggling with. The handwriting was breath-takingly beautiful, each letter a piece of artwork in itself – he had never seen anything like that. He leafed to the last page curiously, and there stood in the same elegant Tengwar: “ _This copy has been penned for the Lady Hareth, by Lindir of Rhosgobel, in the year 2159 of the Third Age_.”

Faramir was completely awestruck, not only by the beauty of the little book but also by its apparent age. Considering that the leaves were in a near-perfect shape, the colours still bright and vivid, it just _had_ to be Elven work, whoever that Lindir of Rhosgobel might be. And Faramir knew he _had_ to have that book, no matter its price – which would undoubtedly be high. But he was the Steward’s son; he could afford it. And as he shared this particular passion with his father, this time the Lord Denethor would doubtlessly approve.

The other books, if less luxurious in detail, were rare gems as well nonetheless. One of them contained ancient Elven legends, with nice little ink drawings. Another one was plain, but just as beautifully written, and it had poems in Adûnaic – the version that had been spoken in the court of Númenórean Kings, no less, albeit a late copy of the original, while the last one was an illustrated copy of herbal lore in Sindarin.

The silversmith seemed not as if he would realize the true value of his wares. He probably knew that books – especially old, illustrated ones – were valuable as a rule, but there was no way he would know _what_ these, in fact, were. He was but a craftsman – and a good one, it seemed – but no lore-master or scholar to be able to read Quenya or Adûnaic.

“I wish to buy these books,” Faramir told the silversmith; “they would make a worthy gift for my father, the Lord Denethor. Alas, I have not enough coin on me to pay you right here, good master. Would you be so kind as to bring them up to Lord Forlong’s Castle? I doubt not that my grandsire, Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth will help me out.”

He rarely used his parentage for any favours, but he had learned at an early age that the names of the Steward or the Prince would open him doors that would otherwise remain closed. And he wanted these books very much. Perchance his grandsire would see them as fitting Yule gifts as well.

Sometimes it was maddening to be an underage youth indeed.

“You need not to make any overdue effort, good smith,” a deep, amused voice said from behind Faramir’s back. “I can help my little brother out – and shall do so gladly, if your price is a reasonable one.”

One glance at the tall, broad-shouldered young nobleman wearing the black clothes and the White Tree of the Steward’s House was enough for the silversmith to know that he should name a reasonable price indeed. The youth would have paid any price he asked for; and his royal grandfather mayhap too, out of love for him. But young Lord Boromir was very obviously a different matter. Alone the fey glint in his grey eyes showed that he was not a man one should trifle with… and he had, despite his relative youth, quite the reputation already.

Thus the silversmith opted for safety and named a price that was well worth the silverwork and the gems that adorned the covers but not so high as to raise the ire of the Steward’s son. Boromir counted the gold pieces into the smith’s palm without haggling. ‘Twas a rare chance for him to give his brother such a gift that Faramir would cherish above anything else. Besides, even though he was not particularly bookish himself, even he had realized that the books were much more worth than just their covers. He _could_ read Quenya and Sindarin and even Adûnaic – he just had more pressing issues in his life.

During all this time, Faramir was cradling his precious books to his chest, with an expression of sheer rapture upon his face. He would offer them to his father, of course – all of them, save the one with the luminous pictures – and the Lord Denethor would probably accept the Elven legends, as they often proved to be a useful source for half-forgotten historic facts. But he would most likely allow Faramir to keep the Adûnaic poems and perhaps even the herbal lore. Faramir was already plotting in his mind about getting a chest for them, in which they would be safe. Mayhap Prince Adrahil would be willing to find a good woodworker and have it made…

“Now you have done it,” a gentle, amused voice said from behind Boromir’s back. “He is gone for the rest of the world. Has he always been such a bookworm?”

And the deep, affectionate voice of Boromir answered with a laughter full of love.

“Ever since he learned his letters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For non-moviegoers: Miranda Otto  
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/0000aybf/)


	7. The Legend of Lady Khorsheed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Lord Herumor is “played” by Stuart Townsend, in all my stories that are related to Halabor.  
> The Legend of Lady Khorsheed is based on the legend of the lady Carcas, which tells the story behind the name of the medieval French town Carcassonne. Khorsheed is Persian and means Sun; as I made the lady a Haradric princess, she needed a name that sounded foreign enough. Besides, I have based one of the largest Haradric realms on ancient Persia, so it would be fitting.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 07 – THE LEGEND OF LADY KHORSHEED**

Faramir blushed a little. Not that he was ashamed of his own bookish nature – ‘twas something his brother often teased him about – but he was by his very nature shy with people he did not know well. He turned around, just a little self-consciously, to see in whose company his brother had caught up with him. He saw a young man, mayhap of Boromir’s age, mayhap even a little younger; yet where Boromir was solid and powerful like a young oak, this other young man was slender and long-limbed like a birch-tree. He seemed almost fragile next to Boromir’s strong frame, but Faramir had been often enough in the company of trained warriors to know that there was steely strength in that slim body.

The young man wore the usual blue of Dol Amroth but without the white belt that would distinguish him as a knight – he most likely was not one, at least not yet. His long, slightly coarse dark tresses had not been shorn above his shoulders in knightly fashion yet, either; they framed his oval face like curling dark flames.

‘Twas a fine young face that still had something of the softness of a child left (he had to be very young indeed), and the large hazel eyes that seemed to change between green-grey and brown, depending on the light mirrored in them, sat a bit too close to each other over the fine, patrician nose, while his lips were softly curved like those of a girl. Only the very high forehead and the surprisingly thick brows added the necessary hardness of a warrior to that pretty face.

The neck of the fine silk shirt he wore under the blue surcoat was open, allowing a glimpse at his smooth, sleek chest and the silver pendant he wore on a thin, black leather string. It was shaped like a four-leaved clover, with a triangular shield upon it, displaying a rampant dragon. Upon all four leaves of the clover, stylized gladden flowers were depicted. The pendant was apparently the emblem of his family, but it was not one that Faramir could recognize.

Boromir laid a friendly arm around his companion’s shoulder and smiled at his brother.

“May I introduce… my brother, Faramir,” he said to the stranger. “Brother, this is Herumor son of Orchaldor, soon a Swan Knight, and perchance one day the Lord of Halabor.”

“May that day _not_ come for many years yet,” Herumor added fervently and offered Faramir the traditional warrior’s greeting. “I still have much to learn about how to be a leader of Men; our town shall need the strong guiding hand of my father for a long time yet.”

Faramir found the modesty of the young man very appealing. As a rule, young knight-probationers were just a wee bit haughty, even those who were to become Swan Knights. Something made him wonder, though.

“Why has your father given you that name?” he asked. “The name with bad memories lasting upon it? The name of a traitor?”

At the same moment, he regretted his question already, realizing just a beat too late that he had been inexcusably rude. The warning look Boromir gave him promised a thorough dressing-down later.

But young Herumor took no offence. Perchance he had been asked the same question before; or else he was not easily offended. Faramir could not tell, but in any case, he showed no anger at all.

“’Tis an old and honourable name that hails back to before the fall of Númenor,” he answered with a shrug and a smile. “I intend to make it a proud one again, no matter who might have besmirched it in the distant past.”

He glanced up to the _Tower of Rollo_ , where a huge sun-clock was embedded into the thick stone wall and frowned, seeing how late it had become already.

“’Tis almost time for the midday meal. We should better go back to the Caste; Uncle Forlong does not like people coming to his table late. I have spent many an afternoon hungry as a child when I failed to appear in time. And while I do not believe that he would do the same to honoured guests, ‘tis better not to annoy him.”

“Should we not seek out the others?” asked Faramir, realizing for the first time that he had lost sight of his original company quite some time ago.

“There is no need for that,” replied Herumor. “They are with Madenn, are they not? She knows what time they ought to be back.”

“Aye, but what if they are looking for me?” asked Faramir anxiously. “I cannot remember when or where I got separated from them… I wish not for anyone to get in trouble because of me!”

“That is very kind of you,” said Herumor with an open, almost infectious smile that showed that he meant it indeed. “Where did you see them the last time?”

“At the toy-maker’s booth,” answered Faramir. “I did not mean to slip away from the guards, honestly…”

“You just could not resist the siren song of the books and got lost in the crowd,” added Boromir, grinning.

“It matters not,” said Herumor. “We should return to the toy-maker’s booth and ask for Madenn. Everyone in town knows her – and she is not easily overlooked.”

As he was the one who knew the place best, the Steward’s sons followed him as he weaved his way through the crowd and among the booths with ease. The toy-maker then pointed out for them the direction in which Madenn and the children had left, and they picked up the trail at the wool merchants again. That led to even more asking and searching, ‘til they finally ran into one of the guards near the bridge.

“Lady Madenn has taken the children back to the Castle,” the man explained to Herumor’s question. “She left us behind to look for young Master Faramir and take him safely back home, too. Venec is looking among the stalls and I decided to wait here, should the young master try to return on his own.”

“You had the right hint, it seems,” said Herumor. “Go and fetch your fellow guard, then; Lord Boromir and I shall guide the boy back to the Castle.”

The guard saluted smartly and left, relieved that he and his fellow would not get in trouble for losing sight of the young lordling. Boromir, Faramir and Herumor crossed the Bridge and were allowed into the upper town, choosing the shortest way to the Castle.

Halfway there, they came upon a wide, open square that often served as the local flower and herb market, according to Herumor. In the middle of the square the stone figure of a strange creature lay: it had the body of a lion, with the head and the upper torso of a woman, whose thick hair was ordered in numerous thin, interwoven plaits, similar to ancient Haradric fashion. Her face, too, had foreign traits, with hawkish features and almond eyes, and her brow was adorned with a string of strange coins – well, the stone images of strange coins anyway.

Faramir came to a halt before the statue and stared at it in surprise. He had not noticed it in the excitement on their way to the fair, but now he wanted to learn more about it.

“What is _that_?” he asked in bewilderment, for never before had he seen such a strange thing, not even on the shields of the various knights visiting Minas Tirith.

Herumor, familiar with the statue since his early childhood, gave it but a cursory glance.

“That? Oh, just a statue to honour the Lady Khorsheed,” he said with a shrug.

The Steward’s sons exchanged identical blank looks.

“She looks… strange,” Boromir commented carefully. Herumor grinned at him apologetically.

“Sorry. I forgot that you might not be familiar with the legend. ‘Tis a local one and not known beyond the walls of the town, I deem. I heard it from my mother's handmaiden when I was very little.”

Considering that the Lady Humleth had died when Herumor had been less than four, it had been a long time ago indeed.

“There is a legend?” Faramir’s eyes brightened in curiosity. Boromir shook his head, amused.

“You just had to mention the legend to him, had you?” he said to Herumor. “Now you will have to tell him the whole tale, or he will not be able to sleep tonight.”

“Well, we cannot have _that_ , now can we?” laughed Herumor. “Anyhow, ‘tis only a legend, and perchance not even true, but the people of Carvossonn believe in it faithfully, and who am I to question it? The Lady Khorsheed is said to have been a Haradric princess who came to Lossarnach as a prisoner of war during the Kin-strife but fell in love with the Lord of Lossarnach and became his wife. There are ballads about their love; you should ask Uncle’s minstrels to sing them for you.”

The excitement in Faramir’s eyes told them that he would, indeed, ask the minstrels for those ballads.

“Years later, though, when the Corsairs of Umbar sailed up the Anduin and the other rivers, a strong army of them besieged Carvossonn,” Herumor continued. “At that time, only the upper town existed yet, and it was called Carvinock back then, the ‘rocky fort’. The Lord of Lossarnach was away to fight in the Battle at the Crossing of Erui. The Corsairs tried to persuade Lady Khorsheed to open the gates for them – after all, they were her people – but out of love to her husband and the people of the town, she refused. Thus the Corsairs decided to starve the people within the walls, as they knew all too well that there were but a few men to protect the town; most of them went away with the Lord to the great battle. The Corsairs hoped that the Lady Khorsheed would give up as soon as the women, the children and the old people hiding in the town ran out of food, rather than let them starve.”

Herumor paused, as if he wanted to see whether Faramir was still listening to him. He needed not to worry; the youth, always a lover of ancient legends, hung on his words with rapture.

“What happened then?” asked Faramir impatiently. “Did the Lady give up?”

“Nay, she did not,” replied Herumor. “Instead, she had the last pig they still had within the walls be fed with the last ounce of grain from the Lord’s pantry and ordered the pig to be thrown out to the Corsairs.”

“Why would she do such thing?” asked Faramir, his eyes wide with astonishment. Herumor smiled.

“Well, ’twas a risky decision, but it proved a wise one. For tidings from the Battle at the Crossing of Erui were not good for the Corsairs; and she made them believe the defenders of Carvinock still had food in abundance, if they could afford to throw a well-fed pig out into their rows. Thus they broke camp and retreated in a great hurry, so that they would not get caught up in the aftermath of the great battle fought further South.”

“Twas a smart move from the Lady,” Faramir admitted; then he glanced at the statue with a frown. “But why does she look like a woman above and like a lion below?”

“’Tis an ancient custom among the Old Folk to show the virtue of a person symbolized by a noble beast,” explained Herumor. “This statue tells us that the Lady Khorsheed had the beauty of a princess and the fierce bravery of a lion. Besides, some Haradric tribes do carry beasts on their banners that look like a lion with a face of a man, so mayhap this should give us a hint about her origins, too.”

“Was she truly a Haradric princess?” asked Faramir doubtfully.

“That I cannot tell,” admitted Herumor. “I asked Master Andrahar if his people have heard about her, but he could not remember. Mayhap she came from a different Haradric realm, although her name is one used in Master Andrahar’s old home. Mayhap she never existed outside of the legends – who could say for certain after such a long time? But we would better hurry up now, if we wish to be on time for the midday meal. Come with me, you can visit the Lady another time again.”


	8. Dreamscapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some authors consider Faramir’s dreaming a Dol Amroth trait that came to his through the Elven blood in his mother’s family. Well, I happen to see it differently. As Aragorn was known to have some sort of foresight as well, I do believe that this specific ability came through Elros’ line to several of Isildur’s descendants. Yes, the Steward’s family descended from Isildur as well, but not on a direct line, that is why they could never ascend to kingship.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 08 – DREAMSCAPES**

Needless to say that Madenn was most upset with Faramir, and not even the presence of Boromir and her own cousin – to whom she seemed to have a very heartfelt bond – was enough to keep her from giving the youngling a piece of her mind. Faramir endured the tongue-lashing in a properly contrite manner – he _had_ frightened her with his disappearance, after all – and escaped to his guest chamber right after the evening meal.

Not that it would have been such a great hardship; he could barely wait to spread his newly-won fortune all over his very comfortable bed and enjoy his bounty. He spent half the night awake, leafing through his precious books with extreme care, admiring the beautiful pictures and struggling with the ancient Quenya and Adûnaic texts. Compared with those, the Sindarin of the Elven legends was a delight; more so as Sindarin was still widely spoken in Minas Tirith, especially among the old nobility.

When he finally went to bed, the strange rhytmics and rhymes of the Adûnaic poems were still echoing in his mind like far-away horn-calls from a rocky hillside.

In his dream, he saw a green island amidst the Sea, shaped like a star, with a steep mountain rising ups in its middle, stretching towards the stars like a silvery tower. Mighty fleets of magnificent ships, greater and stronger even than those of the Princes of Dol Amroth, left the harbours of the island, heading to the West, and their flags were black and gold. They wore the signs of the King, Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, and were full of warriors, tall and grim, and the hearts of the warriors were dark and full of hatred. And Faramir knew that he was seeing the mighty fleet of Númenórë, shortly before its fall, when the last king of Westernesse had tried to seize the Deathless Lands by sheer force in his madness.

For just as the first ship touched land and the King and his chief warriors set foot upon the land of Aman, sacrilegiously, a great chasm opened in the Sea between Númenórë and the Undying Lands, and the waters of the Sea stumbled into it in cataracts that went up to heaven with a deafening noise and with dark smoke that made the day seem like deep dusk; and the world was shaken. All the proud ships of Westernesse were washed away like fragile nutshells, drawn into the abyss, and they were swallowed up for ever.

But the mighty wave that mounted up above the abyss, green and cold and plumed with foams, did not flatten after this. It rolled away towards the isle of Númenórë, growing still on its way ‘til it seemed like a dark wall that touched the heavens. And suddenly, the holy peak in the middle of the isle burst into fire, and a mighty wind arose, spreading its black smoke over the proud towers and mighty tombs, the merry halls with their painted murals and carved pillars, the gardens with their fragrant trees.

And when the mounting wave reached the land, climbing over the green hills, the wives and the children, the maidens and the elderly and the ladies proud, all who had been left behind the warriors trying to storm the Blessed Land, fled their homes with terrified screams. Yet there was no escape from the destruction. For there was a great tumult of the earth, and the sky reeled, and even the hills slid; and the entire isle went down into the Sea, buried under the rearing waves(1).

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Faramir bolted upright in his bed, trembling in his entire body, covered in cold sweat. Albeit prone to strange dreams all his life, he had never had such a frightening one before. If this was one of the true-dreams his father was said to have sometimes? Nay, it could not be; for it showed the past, not some vague future.

He knew he would not be able to fall asleep again. In truth, he dreaded to be alone. He felt the overwhelming need to flee to his brother’s rooms, but he knew not where Boromir slept in this foreign place; and besides, he was old enough to face his own dreams, was he not?

“There is no need to face the demons of the night alone, little brother,” the deep, gentle voice of Boromir said, and Faramir threw himself into his brother’s strong arms in relief, ashamed about his own terror but glad that their connection of old still worked.

Many a time, when he had been very young, had Boromir come into his room without the need to be called for, as if he had known that Faramir was in need of comfort after a bad dream. Since he could think back, this… this strange bond had been there between them. Boromir had always known when he was upset or frightened or just sad; and he came to his aid whenever he could.

Like at this very moment.

“What is wrong, little brother?” asked Boromir quietly. “Have you been dreaming again?”

Still too shaken to answer, Faramir simply nodded, burying his face in his brother’s shoulder. He did _not_ cry, of course, no matter how badly the dream had frightened him. He was almost an esquire already, and only _babes_ cried when scared.

Or little girls like Morwen.

Not that he had seen Morwen crying in years, unless out of extreme anger, but she _was_ a girl, after all. Which he was _not_. His father would be very disappointed with him, had he begun to weep on Boromir’s shoulder like… like a _girl_.

For a while, Boromir said nothing, just rocked him in his arms gently, as if he was a baby indeed, and even though it was a little embarrassing, it felt so good that Faramir could have remained like that all night. No-one could comfort him and make him feel safe like Boromir did. When his brother held him like this, he did not miss his mother so terribly.

“Can you tell me about the dream?” asked Boromir after a while. “’Tis said that dreams are less frightening when we speak about them. Their meaning becomes clear, and they are not so threatening any longer.”

“Have you dreamed, too?” asked back Faramir in surprise.

It happened less frequently that Boromir would have one of the strange dreams that had haunted their House since Mardil Voronwë – he came after the more sombre ways of the people of Lady Olwen – but every time and again, he did dream, too. The main difference was that Faramir usually had visions from the far past, while Boromir dreamed of the future – or what _might_ become a possible future. One could not tell yet if those were true-dreams like the ones of their father or not.

“Nay, I have not dreamed for a long time, and I am grateful for that,” answered Boromir slowly. “Mayhap becoming a soldier has cured me of the dreaming altogether – I cannot tell. But after I have been knighted and officially declared the Heir of stewardship, Father took me with him to the upmost, secret chamber of Ecthelion’s Tower and allowed me to use the Seeing Stone for the first time.”

Faramir, who had studied Gondor’s history with a passion that belied his young age, understood at once what his brother was talking about.

“So, the last of the _palantíri_ has not been lost, after all!” he cried out in awe.

Boromir shook his head and gestured his brother to speak in a lower voice. No-one needed to hear about these things, not even in the house of such a faithful ally as Lord Forlong.

“Nay, he said. “The Stone of Minas Anor has been in the possession of the Stewards, ever since the days of the Kings ended in both kingdoms. “Tis a closely-guarded secret, I am told, accessible only to the Ruling Stewards and their Heirs; and the Stone has not been used by them in all those millennia. For we know not for certain what happened to the Stone of Minas Ithil after it had been sacked and turned evil; but the Stone of Orthanc has remained secure in its unimpregnable tower and has come in the possession of the wizard Curunír – ant thus it is lost for us as well.”

“Yet Father does use the Stone, unlike the Stewards before him, does he not?” asked Faramir a little worriedly.

Boromir nodded.

“He had turned to the Stone as soon as he came to power,” he replied, “but you need not to worry about him. He had long before studied the matters of the _palantíri_ and all the lore regarding them and their use, preserved in the ancient scrolls in the Hidden Archives that only the Stewards are allowed to use.”

“I doubt not Fathers knowledge and wisdom,” said Faramir, still very concerned, “yet it is dangerous to use tools made for people wiser and more powerful than we are. And they put a great strain on those who use them, and lesser Men are not fit to stand that kind of burden.”

“Mayhap,” Boromir allowed. “But the Stones are _useful_ , regardless of the strain they put on those who consult them, and even though their strength comes from a time greater than our own, there still are men strong and confident enough to make good use of their hidden powers.”

“What powers?” asked Faramir. “Father never allowed me to read the old scrolls from the time of Númenórë of old; he always says I am too young to understand them. I only heard of the Stones from my tutor, and I know Father would be very… unsettled, would he know that it happened.”

“First of all, they give the user fair sight, well beyond the boundaries of his own realm,” Boromir explained. “But they can show the far past as well, and glimpses of a probably future. And when two people use two Stones that are in accord with each other, they could talk to each other… or more exchange thoughts over great distances through the Stones.”

“But there are no answering Stones left in the North,” said Faramir. “They were all lost in the shipwreck of Arvedui last-king when the North-kingdom fell. They most likely lie somewhere on the bottom of the Sea, broken and muted.”

“That might be,” answered Boromir, “and you would not wish to seek contact with the other two Stones that might still exist, I deem. But Father judged that the advantages that consulting the Stone in Ecthelion’s Tower could mean outweigh the risks.”

“They may,” murmured Faramir, in a way too low for even his brother to hear, “but what if he is wrong?”

“Besides,” Boromir added, “the Stone is his – and ours – to use _by right_. Since the days of the Kings have the Stewards been the wardens of the Stone and were appointed to survey it regularly. And after the office became hereditary, we remained the only ones to use it legitimately. When you are old enough, Father will introduce you to the Stone as well I deem.”

“Mayhap he will,” Faramir did have his doubts about that but did not want to discuss them at the moment. He was too curious to learn more about the Stone itself. “What is it like?”

“’Tis a perfect sphere, about a foot in diameter,” answered Boromir thoughtfully, “and it seems to be made of solid glass of crystal, deep black in hue. It was heavy when Father handed it to me, and while it felt cold first, it warmed in my hands quickly. There is a low, round table of black marble in the secret chamber, with a central dent in it; there is where the Stone usually rests, so that if can be revolved by hand.”

“Why should you want to revolve it?” asked Faramir curiously.

“Father says that the faces of the Stone need to be righted; its seeing faces are fixed to certain directions, so that, say, only the fixed eastern face can see towards the East, and the surveyor who wants to look, say, towards Rohan, has to sit on the west side of the Stone. So, if it comes out of alignment for some reason, it needs to be realigned by hand. Father also told me that it would not suffer any damage if by accident unseated and rolled off the table; it is unbreakable.”

“And where do the pictures appear?” Faramir nagged his brother. This was the first time in their lives that Boromir could provide him a bit of heretofore unknown lore. “On the surface or in the heart of the Stone?”

“In its heart,” replied Boromir. “As if you would view them from a great distance. ‘Tis… strange to see things that way.”

“What did you see in the Stone?” asked Faramir eagerly, apparently expecting something exciting or mysterious.

Boromir did not answer at once. The memory of that sight must have been an unpleasant one.

“I saw myself,” he finally said. “I was older than I am now, much older: a man grown and hardened in many battles. I was lying in a boat – a small, grey boat the like of which I have never seen before – and my weapons were laid to my side, broken. I believe I was dead, for the boat was filled with a soft light, unlike anything I have ever seen… and with water. It was floating on the Great River to the South, carrying me towards the Sea.”

“Nay, that cannot be!” Faramir protested in despair. “You cannot leave us, not now, not later! We need you… Gondor needs you! What would become of us all without you?”

Boromir patted his back fondly.

“’Twas a vision, nothing more,” he said. “The sights of the Stone are haphazard, if ungoverned by a directing mind, and this was but my first try to master it. No need to be upset about it. Now, do you think you can go back and sleep or shall I stay with you?”

“Stay,” whispered Faramir, too frightened to let his brother go just now, and Boromir climbed to him to bed as they had done in their early childhood.

For in the end, there was no-one else to stand with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Based on the _Akallabêth_ , pp. 334-335.  
> The lore about the _palantíri_ can be found – in considerably more detail – in the _Unfinished Tales_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prince Théodred is “played” by **[Vladimir Kulich](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0474520/)**. Imagine him as he appeared in “The 13th Warrior”, only a lot younger and more richly attired. The Lady Aud is my OC. The various clans and Houses of the Rohirrim are borrowed from an online RPG that has, sadly, vanished from the Net.  
>  Théoden’s daughter Idis was a character Tolkien actually considered for a short while. She appears in the early writings both next to Éowyn or in her stead, but was finally rejected. I resurrected her because I found her too interesting a character to ignore – I just changed her background a little.  
> I ruefully admit that I don’t know a thing about horses. All that is there is the result of a lot of research – I apologize if I’ve managed to misinterpret anything. In any case, my sources state that medieval knights did not ride their warhorses on long journeys; it would have taken its toll on both, rider and horse. Aside from war and tournaments, they rode palfreys.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 09 – THÉODRED THE BRAVE**

When Faramir woke in the next morn, Boromir was gone. He was weary still, but the closeness of his brother _had_ helped him to get over the terrifying dream – as always, Boromir _had_ protected him, even from his own fear – and now he felt like roaming Lord Forlong’s town, seeing new, exciting things and meeting new people.

Liahan, his grandsire’s page, brought him some breakfast.

“You have missed first meal,” the boy said. “Lord Boromir left orders that you be allowed to sleep late and given something to eat when you awake on your own. The servants have prepared a bath for you, but you must hurry up if you want to go with the others.”

“Where to?” asked Faramir, digging into his breakfast with the ever-present hunger of every thirteen-year-old.

“Prince Elphir and little Lady Morwen wanted to go down to the _Old Bridge_ ,” told him Liahan. “The people of Rohan will be coming, soon; their messenger has already arrived. Prince Théodred himself is coming with them, they say, and other nobles from Théoden-king’s court.”

That perspective made Faramir eat even faster – so fast, indeed, that he would pay for it with a most unpleasant belly-ache later in the morning – just to be finished and able to join the others on the walls. He had met Prince Théodred the Brave but once, during a visit of the royal court of Rohan in Minas Tirith. But he knew that Boromir and the Prince had been childhood friends, back when the old queen of Rohan had still been alive and they visited their kin in Lossarnach more often. In truth, there were even family ties between the House of the Stewards and that of Eorl, however thin ones. The late Queen, Théodred’s grandmother had been a cousin of Lord Lorindol, the husband of Denethor’s eldest sister, the Lady Faelivrin.

They could hardly be called blood kin anymore, and the closeness between Edoras and Minas Tirith was based on the Oath of Eorl and on the long time the late Thengel-king, Théodred’s grandsire, had spent in Gondor. Nonetheless, it was a good, solid alliance, and both sides liked to emphasize the family connection – more so as in the eyes of the Rohirrim family ties were considered stronger than any other bond, including the most solemn oath sworn to one’s King.

Boromir had always spoken of the Prince of Rohan as one would speak of a brother or of a very dear friend. Thus it was understandable that Faramir wanted to meet him again and to know him better. Anyone whom _Boromir_ considered a friend was good enough for _him_.

He could barely restrain his impatience with the mundane tasks of eating, bathing and getting dressed properly, but he knew that a flawless appearance was expected from him. He was the son of the Steward and the grandson of Prince Adrahil, after all. Thus he went through his morning discipline with forced patience, asked his grandsire to find a safe place for his newly-acquired, precious books, and then practically burst out of their rooms to find the others. Not even Madenn’s still lingering anger did bother him too much.

To his great relief, Madenn seemed to pay no attention to him at all. She was particularly lovely today, even more so than on the previous day or on the day before, clad in dark blue and gold silks, girdled with a chain of golden roses low on her hip. Her dark blonde hair was swept up in a dozen shining braids, coiled in a filigree net and bound in a gold circlet stud with small gemstones. She seemed every bit as excited as the children, and could barely wait to go down to the Old Bridge.

“Does she know anyone from the royal court of Rohan?” Boromir, who had chosen to wait for the horse-lords at the bridge, too, asked his newly found friend.

Herumor shrugged. “You are asking the wrong cousin, my friend. I have not been to Uncle Forlong’s court for years – ever since I began my training in Dol Amroth. But if the ladies-in-waiting of my current aunt can be trusted, Prince Théodred has visited his kin in Lossarnach surprisingly often in the recent years. And every time he came, he chose to stay in Uncle’s house.”

Boromir glanced at Madenn who was all but glowing with beauty and expectation. Had his friend Théodred fallen for Forlong’s golden daughter, it would certainly be understandable. Yet he also knew that such a bond would never be permitted. The Rohirrim generally accepted illegitimate children just as easily as the Old Folk, but the Heir of the crown was a different matter.

“Have you tried to ask her sister?” he asked Herumor.

The young knight-to-be shook his head. “It would do no good. Madenn and Achren have put their differences aside and sworn an unbreakable alliance on the very day the Lady Almaren first set foot in Uncle’s house. They would guard each other’s secrets with their life, if need must be.”

Boromir remembered the Lady Almaren’s determined face and what he had heard about old Lady Achren, Forlong’s mother, and he shuddered, imagining the merciless fight for power the ladies of Forlong’s House must be carrying out, behind the smiling, polite surface of a well-bred noble family.

“Your uncle is not to be envied,” he said with deep feeling.

But Herumor just laughed.

“Oh, you need not to worry about Uncle,” he said. “He is tougher than cooked swine-hides. Although,” he added honestly, “I am grateful that _my_ father decided to lead a more peaceful household, instead of re-marrying several times, taking a younger wife at every new wedding. Oh, look… there they come!”

And indeed, the company of Prince Théodred could already be seen, crossing the lower town and riding up to the bridge. An entire _éored_ , as it suited a crown prince: one hundred and four tall, golden-haired men in shining chain mails and elaborate helmets, carrying long spears and riding on dappled grey palfreys, so similar in appearance that they must have been hand-picked for just this particular _éored_.

A standard-bearer rode in front of the troop, carrying the green banner of the Riddermark with the white horse upon it – this had been the emblem of the Kings of Rohan since the days of Eorl the Young, as only the _mearas_ among the magnificent horses of the Mark were truly white.

Two such noble beasts could be seen in the group: a great war-horse, ridden by the Crown Prince himself, and a beautiful little mare that carried a golden-haired girl of about fifteen summers. The girl rode her mare in the fashion of men, wearing a split-skirted kirtle; her touch on the rein was light and her seat in the saddle graceful. One could see that she had been used to horses since early childhood, and the running horse embroidered beautifully in white and gold upon her kirtle revealed that she must have been related to the royal family.

“She rides well, for a girl of her age,” judged Boromir, impressed by the girl’s undeniable skills. “Who could she be?”

“Perchance young Lady Idis, the daughter of Théoden-king,” replied Herumor. “Madenn mentioned that she has been introduced to the royal court a year ago – no small feat for the orphaned daughter of a mere serving woman. But they say Théoden-king loves her nearly as much as Uncle loves Madenn; and that Prince Théodred looks at her as his little sister, too. One day, she will be married off to one of the powerful _ealdormen_ of the Mark, strengthening her father’s rule, even though she has been born in the wrong bed.”

“And what about Madenn?” asked Boromir.

Herumor shrugged.

“You know that things in Rohan are different,” he said. “No matter what the customs of the Old Folk are, no noble family of Gondor would accept her as they would accept a legitimate daughter… and the Lady Almaren lets her feel that every day. She would do better marrying a decent craftsman, but who of those would dare to approach Lord Forlong’s daughter? She will have a lonely life – unless she chooses to leave Lossarnach to begin a new life somewhere where no-one knows her.”

Boromir nodded in agreement. Bastard sons and daughters did not have it easy in Gondor. They stood between all ranks, not truly belonging anywhere. He wondered if Théodred had considered this ere he had taken Forlong’s daughter as his lover – _if_ that was a fact and Madenn was not just pining after him in hopeless love. For there could be no doubt about her feelings for the Crown Prince of Rohan – her face was positively glowing as she watched the approach of the proud horse-lords.

In the meantime, the Rohirrim had reached the bridge, and now their singing could be heard up to the wall where Boromir and the others were watching. They sang in their own tongue, which Boromir understood a little though he did not speak it well. It sounded like the roaring of the wind over the endless green fields of Calenardhon.

__

Swylce if waes on Mundburh mid Brego  
se haefde moncynnes mine gefraege  
leohteste hond lofes to wyrcenne  
heortan uhneaweste hringa gedales,  
beorhta beaga, bearn Eorlinga.

Boromir leaned over the wall, trying to get a closer look at the pair of Riders that were flanking Théodred and his young sister. They both rode big, blue roan warhorses, which was against custom on such long journeys, and – alone from the entire company – did not have golden hair. 

One of them was a powerfully-built man in his prime, wearing the emblem of Clan Ethias upon his shield: the silver fist on red, in honour of the most famous member of their clan, Helm Hammerhand, ninth King of Rohan and last of his line. The other one, though tall and proud as well, was obviously a woman – the peculiar shaping of her breastplate gave her away at once. Her shield was lozenge-shaped and plain green, with a black and a silver arrow fastened upon it, crossing each other. The same symbol adorned her helm.

“A shieldmaiden?” asked Boromir in surprise. “I did not know they still had them in Rohan.”

“There are not many of them left, I am told,” replied Herumor, “yet the way is open for every free-born woman still. Few are willing to take the hardness of shieldmaiden training upon themselves, though.”

“Do you know who she is?” Boromir nodded in the direction of the shieldmaiden riding on Princess Idis’ side.

“Well, the man is obviously Erkenbrand, the Lord of the Westfold,” said Herumor. “No-one else wears the silver fist upon his shield. Therefore the shieldmaiden could only be his eldest daughter, the Lady Aud-of-the-deep-eyes, as she is called among her own people.”

“But why would she come to your knighting?” asked Boromir. “I knew not that your father had such a close alliance with the Rohirrim.”

“We have not,” Herumor laughed, “nor has she come because of my knighting. She has come to take part of the tournament.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the Rohirrim is based on the ancient English poem _Widsith_ ; I only changed a few names (and probably messed up the grammar in the process).
> 
> **It means the following:**   
>  _“I was in Mundburg (= Minas Tirith) with Brego: of all men of whom I have heard he had the hand most ready for deeds of praise, the heart least niggard in the giving of rings, of shining armlets, the son of Eorl.”_
> 
> A more mature Théodred, as played by Vladimir Kulich  
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/0000bf1f/)


	10. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I don’t want to assume that women were ever allowed to take part in actual medieval tournaments, it is an historic fact that unmarried Viking females were, indeed, allowed to go to war with the men. They could be seen on several authentic paintings or carpets, wearing very short tunics. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 10 – REUNION**

“ _To take part in the tournament?_ ” Boromir stared at Herumor in utter bewilderment. “ _A woman_?”

“Nay; a _shieldmaiden_ ,” replied Herumor. “And you would do well to have your shield firmly in hand, for they are very good with the sword.”

“Mayhap they have the skills,” said Boromir dismissively. “But they most certainly lack the strength.”

“We shall see,” Herumor grinned unrepentantly. “I only had the chance to spar with the Lady Aud once – it took me weeks to recover from the bruises she gave me. Admittedly, I was barely sixteen at that time, but it was… educational nevertheless. Only Master Andrahar has ever beaten me in swordplay as badly as she did.”

“In that case we should go down to the gate and great her properly,” Boromir laughed. “Mayhap she will go on you easier the next time.”

“Speak for yourself,” replied Herumor, moving already. “I have seen many a self-confident knight fall from the saddle before her pike. Come with me, children; let us welcome the Prince of Rohan in the town.”

Faramir, Morwen and Liahan were more than willing to make Prince Théodred’s acquaintance – and even more, that of young Princess Idis – and followed him merrily, with an amused Boromir in tow. Only Madenn stayed behind, and she had lost that inner glow that had been shining all over her face but a moment ago. A dark foreboding crept into her heart, and all of a sudden, she felt no longer like greeting Théodred before the eyes of all people.

She whirled around and hurried back to the Castle, alone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, the reunion at the upper town’s gate was a happy and noisy one. Boromir and Théodred embraced each other in bears’ hugs that would have knacked the ribs of any lesser man and slapped each other on the back that it echoed from the stone walls. Due to Théodred’s partially Gondorian heritage, they were about the same height – and yet Théodred managed to look even larger, with his huge shoulders and great arms and unruly golden mane, even though Boromir was rather broadly built himself.

Herumor greeted Erkenbrand on behalf of his uncle – for indeed, it was the Lord of the Westfold in the flesh, carrying the red shield with the silver fist upon it – and clasped forearms with the Lady Aud in true warrior fashion.

“Came to turn my day of honour into one of utter shame and humiliation?” he teased her in a friendly manner.

“Came to prove my skills against the haughty Men of Mundburg one last time,” she replied, smiling.

She was beautiful, Boromir decided, with eyes that reminded a man of bottomless wells, dark and perilous and the more mesmerizing. She looked gorgeous in a chain mail – she would look like a warrior goddess of old Rohirric sagas in a proper gown.

“If you wish to spare yourself the humiliation,” she continued to Herumor, “you should fight on my side in the _mêlée_.”

“Oh, but that would be treason,” Herumor laughed. “Surely, I cannot raise my sword against the future Steward of Gondor! That would make me forsworn, and my entire House would fall from grace, after millennia of faithful service.”

They laughed, and while the proper introductions were made, Boromir watched the Lady Aud unobtrusively. She seemed to be in her early twenties and doubtlessly counted as exotically beautiful with her dark hair and unfathomable eyes – a rare trait among the blond, blue-eyed Rohirrim. Yet there was also a lingering sadness in those deep, dark eyes of hers. Boromir wondered about the reasons, ‘til the side remark about this being her last fight hit home.

There could be only one reason for a shieldmaiden of the Mark to set her sword aside: a marriage that would serve her _cynn_ more than her valour as a warrior would. And considering the fact that she and her father had come in Théodred’s company, Boromir could guess who else would be involved in that marriage.

He felt sorry for Madenn, who was suspiciously absent, but this was the order of things in the realm of Gondor. And even in the Mark, usually more lenient where the parentage of a worthy man or woman was considered, the Heir of the throne could not follow his heart when choosing his future Queen.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They went back to the Castle, where the royal guests were properly welcomed by the Lord and the Lady and given guest rooms worthy their rank and position. After that, Archen, Forlong’s daughter, offered the children – including Princess Idis who seemed to enjoy her first visit outside of the Mark enormously – to go with them to the fair again, as this was the day when the Fair King would be chosen. Boromir promised his brother to join him shortly; as soon as he had the chance to speak with his friend Théodred alone.

“I would like to see the ceremony as well,” said the Lady Aud, “but it was a long journey and I believe I would do better if I put my armour aside and had a decent bath. I do not believe I would need my sword inside town. However, I would welcome the chance to know you better, Lady Achren, if it pleases you. Later perhaps?”

“Certainly, “nodded Achren. “We should be back before evening meal. I shall let you know when we returned.”

Lady Aud thanked her and rushed off, eager to become more comfortable as well as more presentable for a noble Gondorian household. Achren shot her cousin a questioning look, but Herumor shook his head, saying that he would seek out Madenn, for they had some things to discuss. Thus Achren herded the children down to the courtyard alone, to wait for the arrival of the guards who were to accompany them – this time more than on the day before, as this was the day on which the summer fair officially began, and that could make even Forlong’s town a bit less safe than usual.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That left Boromir and Théodred alone in the anteroom, and Boromir eyed his old friend in concern. Théodred had grown into full manhood since their last encounter: he was the prime example of glorious Northern maleness, but his more refined features clearly showed the traits of his late grandmother, Queen Morwen of Lossarnach. Comely, valiant and the Heir of the throne – he could have chosen any woman he wanted.

Just not the one he loved, it seemed.

“Is this what I believe it is?” asked Boromir. “Is your father about to get you wedded?”

“Not right away, but soon enough, aye,” replied Théodred with a shrug. “I always knew this would happen one day. And the Lady Aud is more than worthy to become the Queen of the Mark. I could have done a lot worse.”

“Was it your choice or that of the King?” asked Boromir quietly, wondering when his father would make the same demand.

He could hope for a little more time, as the Men of Westernesse could expect a much longer life than lesser people, even though their blood had been diluted since the days of the kings; and besides, the Lord Denethor had married late himself. But one day the Steward, too, would expect his firstborn to wed a suitable noblewoman and sire Heirs to the stewardship – and Boromir truly dreaded that day.

“’Twas a choice we both agreed with,” Théodred answered to Boromir’s question. “I have known the Lady Aud all my life; though she is a few years my elder, we used to have weapons training together. She is noble and courageous and wise and beautiful – what could I wish for more?”

“Naught if all you want is a suitable wife,” answered Boromir dryly. “But if you wish for love…”

“I would if I could,” said Théodred with a sigh. “Yet love is not something for men like you or me… not in the long run. We have to wed as it suits our realm, not as it suits our heart. I cannot make Madenn my Queen, no matter how much I love her, just as Father could not take Idis’ mother as his second wife. No-one of us belongs to himself.”

“True enough,” admitted Boromir, “but is this honest towards the women? To the one whom you love _or_ to the one whom you shall wed?”

“The Lady Aud enters our bond with her eyes wide open,” said Théodred. “And we both hope that in time we shall learn how to love each other beyond the bonds of friendship and shared duty. It worked for my father and mother, short though their time together was. Why should it not work for Aud and me?”

“I hope for your sake that it will,” said Boromir gravely, “but what is to become of Madenn? People know of the bond between you and her I deem – and they will _talk_. How is she supposed to find a suitable husband when she is known to have been the mistress of the Prince of Rohan? Customs in Gondor are not so forgiving as they are in your own realm… have you even considered that?”

“You speak true, I fear,” Théodred sighed again, “yet we did not think of the future when we first fell in love. I was a barely sixteen back then; a man grown as we see it in the Mark, yet still barely more than a youth in the eyes of your people. I was overwhelmed when she chose me, but mayhap you are right. Mayhap at the age of sixteen one is truly too young. I would not do the same _now_. But what is done is done, and I cannot change it. And even though I know I have wronged her, I cannot regret having loved her… and been loved in return.”

“I wonder, though, whether _she_ has any regrets,” said Boromir thoughtfully.

Théodred shrugged in defeat.

“She might… and _that_ I do regret,” he paused for a moment, then added. “You shall have your own regrets in time. Judge me not, my friend.”

“I would never dare,” replied Boromir. “Our young knights go to pleasure houses – at least you have been with someone you honestly loved. ‘Tis a good thing you did not give her a child, though. Base-born children have a much harder life in Gondor than they would have in the Mark.”

“She is a skilled healer; she saw into it so that I would not sire any son or daughter unwanted,” said Théodred. “For though I would love to keep something of her – and of what we had together – had I sired a son, it could cause… trouble when it comes to chose the Heir of the throne after me. Our people make no difference between legitimate and base-born sons, so there could have been a bitter struggle for power, which would harm the Mark greatly.”

“’Tis better so, for every one involved,” agreed Boromir. “You have come to end it between the two of you, then?”

“I have come to say my farewells,” answered the Prince of Rohan mournfully, “and to see her one last time… and never again. I did not wish her to learn about my betrothal from someone else. I owe her that much.”

“Betrothal?” Boromir frowned. “Has it been announced before the royal court already? We have not received any official writ yet.”

Théodred shook his head.

“Nay, it has not. ‘Tis just an agreement between the two families yet. I am not to be wed before I turn twenty, and there is the year of betrothal that must be fully observed, with all the proper ceremonies,” he flashed Boromir a mirthless smile. “We do not write books as you grave folk do – we have rites for everything instead, and at least these include great feasts with honest amounts of ale.” He paused for a moment again. “I wish you to stand with me before the _norna_ as my witness, when the day of my wedding comes. As I have no brother, nor any male _cynn_ of the right age, I have to choose a friend instead. I wish _you_ to be that friend.”

“I am honoured,” said Boromir with an elegant little bow; despite soldiering, Lady Tirathiel’s lessons in courtly manners were not easily forgotten. “Call me when the time is come, and I shall ride to Edoras, save an all-out war on our borders.”

“If there is a war,” replied Théodred solemnly, “our swords will sing the same song in battle, my friend. For I shall renew the Oath of Eorl when I come into my own, and no trick, no treachery, nor any dark power would ever be able to stand between Gondor and the Mark. This I swear you by the burial mounds of my longfathers, and may their bones be my witnesses.”


	11. Cousins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The background information about various Rohirric Clans and Houses is from an online RPG that is, sadly, gone now. And yes, Madenn is a canon character – sort of. “Kinswoman” could have such a wide interpretation. You are free to guess her true identity. :o))

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 11 – COUSINS**

Herumor found his cousin high up in the keep, on one of the galleries that belonged to the ladies’ wing. Madenn had her own chambers there, next to the ones of Achren and those of her father’s wife – whoever _that_ might be at any given time – and in safe distance from the chambers of her resolute grandmother. ‘Twas a wing where men were usually not allowed, but Herumor was family, and this no-one tried to keep him away from his kin.

Madenn was leaning on the railing, still clad in her best garment – the one she had put on for Théodred’s sake – and was staring at something well beyond the eyesight of Men. Herumor doubted that she actually was _seeing_ anything; ‘twas simply a means to distract herself from the _here_ and _now_.

She was still aware enough of her surroundings to notice Herumor’s tentative approach, though, for she turned to him at the very moment he stepped out onto the gallery – and smiled. ‘Twas a pale smile but a honest one; although they had not met too often in their childhood, there had always been great love between the two of them, like between brother and sister. ‘Twas thanks to Madenn and Achren that Herumor had not suffered too much from being an only child.

“Cousin,” she greeted him in that low, lovely voice of hers; and Herumor hugged her instinctively.

“How do you feel?” he asked gently. Madenn shrugged.

“I am well enough,” she answered simply. “We knew this day will come; I just did not expect it to come this soon. The King of Rohan must be desperate to see his only son wedded and bedded at the earliest possible time. Or else Lord Erkenbrand is desperate to become kin to the royal House. Perchance the Westfold is being bothered by the Dunlendings again and he needs support from Edoras.”

“One would think Erkenbrand’s House must have some Dunlending blood, too,” said Herumor thoughtfully. “There are not many Rohirrim with dark hair and dark eyes.”

“That might be so,” agreed Madenn. “There have been times when the two people mingled with each other, or so I am told. And the traits are well visible in Clan Ethias.”

“’Tis strange that Théoden-king would choose a wife for his son from a House that has intermingled with Dunlendings,” said Herumor, a little surprised.

Madenn shrugged again, apparently not bothered by that, and why should she?

“Not all people are as obsessed with bloodlines as the Dúnedain are,” she answered primly; in any other realm, her illegitimate origins would have been of little importance, and she was very aware of that. “Lord Erkenbrand controls the Hornburg, which is the most formidable fortress not in Rohan only but in all the southern lands. His House is as ancient as the Men of the Mark reckon it, reaching far back to Frumgar, father of Fram the Dragon-slayer, at a time when the Rohirrim still dwelt in the far North. For he is a descendant of Holdred Anlaf, one of the greatest heroes of Rohirric legends. And the Lady Aud is certainly noble, brave and beautiful. She would be a worthy Queen of the Mark.”

Herumor nodded, for all this was certainly true, and his respect for Madenn, who had discussed the advantages of Théodred’s upcoming marriage in such a calm, even manner as if she had no interest in the whole affair at all, went up several notches. If not for her origins, Madenn would have made a worthy wife for the Prince as well. She might not be a shieldmaiden, yet she was every bit as noble and brave as the Lady Aud; in Herumor’s eyes even more so. One needed to be a brave soul to give up on a beloved one with such dignity.

“No regrets?” he asked. Madenn shook her golden head.

“None,” she replied. “Save perhaps that I was not allowed to give him a child. We discussed it… but he was right. It would have caused trouble in time – the succession on the throne must not become a struggle for power between his sons. And had his firstborn be born by me, it could have led to such struggle. I accepted that… and the fact that I shall have no children.”

“Why not?” asked Herumor, understandably confused. “Surely, you can marry in time, if you go away from Carvossonn far enough, where people know not about your… acquaintance with the Prince of Rohan. You are still young enough to have a family on your own – and beautiful enough to find a decent husband.”

But Madenn shook her head again.

“Nay,” she said. “I do not wish to have any other man, no matter what a decent husband he might make. My mother could never take any other husband, either, although she was sent away from here barely a year after my birth. It seems I take after her.”

“I wonder how old Lady Achren endured her presence even that long,” Herumor admitted. “She is not a woman who would understand – or forgive – such indiscretions from her son. Even if her son is the Lord of Lossarnach… or perchance even for that reason.”

“She had to,” said Madenn, “for the Lady Riwanon, Father’s first wife, was barren, and I was his only child at that time. And a sickly child I was who needed her mother’s care. I would not have survived with just a wet nurse.”

“You never spoke of your mother before,” said Herumor. “Who was she? Is she still alive? Have you met her again, in all these years?”

“She was a young healer who worked in the Infirmary when Father met her,” answered Madenn. “He was already married to the Lady Riwanon – a bitter, unpleasant, unkind woman as I heard, who hated music and merriness and the hunt and would never sing or dance. Grandmother’s choice, ‘tis said, for she was of Dúnadan blood, and Grandmother always wanted to secure the blood of Westernesse, thin and weak in her own veins, for her grandchildren. Father was unhappy with that wretch, and when he fell in love with Mother, he gave her a little house next to the Infirmary, and that was where they met, hidden from Grandmother’s eyes – or so they thought.”

“But why did she have to leave town?” Herumor wondered. “She could have stayed there, in that house, could she not?”

“’Twas Grandmother’s doing again, I deem,” replied Madenn grimly. “She went out of her way to get Father wedded again, after the Lady Riwanon died from the dry fever. She saw Mother as an obstacle, thus she nagged Father as long as he agreed to send Mother away and wed the Lady Gildis, Achren’s mother.”

“Where did your mother go?” asked Herumor.

“Back to her people In Imloth Melui,” said Madenn. “Close enough to me so that I could go and see her a few times. After Achren’s birth, I was of no importance any longer, and Grandmother ceased to care about what I was doing.”

“How fortunate for you,” commented Herumor dryly. “I still do think that Uncle Forlong loves you very much, though.”

“He does,” Madenn agreed with a fond smile; apparently, the feeling between father and daughter was mutual. “But he cannot bear the nagging of his mother for too long. Do you truly believe he _wanted_ to wed the Lady Almaren? He was happy and content with his new mistress – and even careful enough _not_ to sire another bastard – but Grandmother just could not leave him alone.”

“Uncle has a mistress?” Herumor was just a bit shocked. He knew the old Folk saw such things… differently, but he had been raised in the stern traditions of an ancient Númenórean family and could not always accept the customs of his mother’s people.

Madenn laughed. “Not now; the Lady Almaren would never bear that. But he had one between his second and third wife, and I daresay she made him a lot happier than Almaren ever could, despite having born him the long-awaited son. At least Tynellas loved and respected him, which Almaren does _not_. For her, we are all unhewn barbarians, and I think she misses her own people – and all that Southron prunk the folk of Pelargir is so fond of – very much. This is not the kind of life she was used to – and she never fails to make it abundantly clear.”

“But this is the kind of life _you_ are used to,” said Herumor. “What will you do, now that Théodred will have to leave you?”

“Going on with my life; what else?” answered Madenn simply. “He was never truly mine – this match has been bargained over by the King and Lord Erkenbrand for years. We had two years full of love and bliss – ‘tis more than many people can ever hope to get.”

“You can always move to Halabor if life gets too hard for you here,” offered Herumor. “Father would take you in like his own daughter, you know that. You are family – and Halabor is far enough from here for people not to know about you anything.”

“I know,” Madenn nodded,” and I thank you – and your father – for the generous offer from the bottom of my heart. But you need not to worry about me. I am not some fragile flower of Westernesse. I am that daughter of a hard-working common woman and quite capable of working hard myself, if I have to. _And_ I am a trained healer – I can earn my own living if need must be.”

“Is that what you have in mind?” asked Herumor. “To take up your mother’s trade and work in the Infirmary?”

“Not yet,” Madenn shook her head. “I am not good enough for that right now. Nor do I wish to stay here, in Father’s town, where everyone knows me. I shall go to Imloth Melui, to learn some more herb lore and leech-craft – and to be with Mother, at last.”

“Are you planning to go very soon?” asked Herumor, saddened by the thought that they might never see each other again. Halabor was a long way from Carvossonn indeed, and the lovely vale of Imloth Melui was even further away. “You will still be here when I get knighted, will you not?”

“Of course I will,” Madenn smiled at him in a sisterly manner. “I cannot leave right now in any case; not ere Achren has found a way out of this house… safely and in a way that matches her rank and status.”

Herumor’s ears perked up at that, his thick brows drawing together in a heavy frown.

“What do you mean _safely_?” he asked in concern. “I cannot believe that Uncle would ever allow anything to happen to _any one_ of his children.”

“He certainly would not,” Madenn agreed, “nor do I want to assume that his newest wife would dare to do us – any of us – bodily harm, even though you can hear strange things about the noblewomen of Pelargir who are way too familiar with Southron poisons. But she will do anything in her power to have us out of her way – or the way of her son. I have no love for Grandmother, for she is a hard and difficult woman, but right now, she is the one holding a hand over Achren and me.”

“I cannot believe it,” Herumor shook his head fervently. “Uncle would always protect you, always!”

“He would protect us from any peril he can _see_ ,” said Madenn gravely. “But he is an honest, straightforward man. He could never imagine the intrigues plotted in the women’s wing. ‘Tis hard to fight an opponent you cannot see… whom you not even know to exist. So nay, I cannot leave just yet; not as long as Achren is still here. We depend on each other; we _need_ each other.”

“I understand that,” said Herumor after a lengthy pause. “I still do believe, though, that you should come to Halabor, once you have finished your training as a healer. Our Infirmary has been without a healer for many years. ‘Tis small and not as fancy as yours, but it is full of sick and ailing people who are in need. You could live on your own among us, if that is what you truly want.”

“Nay, cousin,” Madenn smiled at him gently and kissed him on the cheek. “I still would be a kinswoman of your father. Not that _that_ would not be an honour… it is, and your father is the most honourable man I have ever known aside from mine. But I have finally understood that my place is not with the nobles, the ones like Father, no matter how dearly I do love him. I need to stand on my own two feet as mother does; to leave the riches that never truly belonged to me behind.”

“That will be a long and arduous journey,” Herumor warned her.

“I know,” she replied with a faint smile, “but I have all the time in the world. I need not to hurry anywhere – as I have nothing left to wait for.”

Herumor gave her a somewhat alarmed look.

“You truly love him so much?” he asked. “Even now, after he has to leave you for the good of his own people?”

Madenn nodded soberly, her face peaceful and solemn.

“He is – he _was_ – everything I could hope for. No-one else would do. As I said, you need not to worry about me, cousin. I am a woman of the Old Folk and we are strong. I shall have a full life, whatever may come, for I shall always have my memories.”

“But nothing else,” reminded her Herumor sadly.

She laughed, though there was suppressed pain in her deep, bright blue eyes.

“’Tis more than many women have,” she replied simply.


	12. The King of the Fair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events surrounding the King of the Fair are based on the old Celtic tradition of Lughnasadh. I tried to keep as close as possible while still adapting it to Middle-earth. Remember, in medieval times children got to see all sorts of things a child of our time would find terrible or disgusting, so they were probably a lot less sensitive in certain areas.  
> All-white cattle are a breed that can be found in Friesland (an area of the Netherlands); they are not a product of my imagination.  
> And yes, the fancy hat is similar to the one Herumor wears in the first chapter of “The Shoemaker’s Daughter”. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 12 – THE KING OF THE FAIR**

To his surprise, Boromir actually managed to catch up with Achren and the children ere they could have left the upper town.

“We have been waiting for Father,” little Morwen explained, giving Lord Húrin, who was wearing the usual rich, dark clothes of his House, a look full of pride and appreciation.

“I thought this would be a good chance to spend some time with my daughter,” declared the Warden of the Keys, who looked truly dashing in his richly embroidered surcoat and fancy hat, the one that had come in fashion in Dol Amroth recently. ‘Twas one of those rolled hats, wrapped with thin gold cord, that left a piece of fine cloth draped over his wearer’s right shoulder.

“Besides,” added Húrin with dignity, “’tis the sacred duty of a father to spoil his child every time and again.”

The children all merrily agreed with that, but Boromir had the sneaking suspicion that not fatherly duties alone moved Húrin to join their little group. His suspicions were strengthened when he saw that Achren, too, had found the time to put on her pretties garment and was now wearing a similar gown as Madenn’s had been, just in deep burgundy red and silver. She looked very lovely indeed; she would match – or even outdo – the finest ladies of the court in Minas Tirith.

 _She would make a good wife for Húrin_ , Boromir thought, watching with an understanding smile as his cousin offered his arm to the Lady Achren gallantly. _She is pretty, well-bred and witty – she would bring joy to a house that has been grieving for too long_.

As they were walking down to the Tower of Rollo, they could see wreaths, woven from wheat, decorating the doors of the houses, worn upon people’s heads and even on the stone sculptures standing on various places. Joyous singing could be heard on every corner, and there were minstrels, playing their harps and lutes before the houses of the wealthy, hoping to get a day’s work or two out of the feast.

“The Old Folk calls _Mede_ – or _Afterlithe_ (1), as it is named in other parts of the country – the _hungry moon_ , as it is right before harvest time,” Achren explained to the children who were listening to her in wide-eyed astonishment. “Often in earlier times a famine was faces, as supplies from the previous year’s harvest were depleted by that time. That is why the Summer Fair is such a joyous event; ’tis the keenly anticipated first of the three harvests.”

“ _Three_ harvests?” Morwen frowned. “How could there be _three_ harvests? What are the other two?”

“We harvest the grain in _Wedmath_ (2) and the fruits in _Halimath_ (3),” replied Achren. “The third one is the meat at the end-of-season slaughter in _Bloodmath_ (4), which bears its name for that very reason. And all three harvests are celebrated with fairs and feasts, races, gambling and all sorts of games.”

“I never heard of these customs before,” said Faramir, apparently distressed by such huge gaps in his knowledge.

“The Men of Westernesse never cared much for the work on the fields,” answered Achren a bit tartly. “They were more concerned about ships and battles and hunting. But the Old Folk is bound to the soil they cultivate, and their customs, too, are bound to their work. To the present day, my father visits the ripening crop fields outside the town at the beginning of every _Wedmath_ , to call down the blessing of Nurria, the lady of the fields and pastures, upon the upcoming harvest. On the same day, a small amount of the new crop is gathered, whether it is fully ripe or not, and the first new loaf of the harvest is backed of it and blessed in every household.”

“But is it any good if the crop has not been ripened yet?” asked Faramir, practical as always. Achren laughed.

“It may not _taste_ all too good in some years,” she admitted, “but custom must be followed nonetheless, so that the harvest would turn out rich; or so the elders say.”

Faramir shook his head in doubt, not entirely believing what he was being told. Boromir smiled. He knew that field-workers had their own beliefs and superstitions, just as soldiers had theirs, and if those customs gave the farmers the strength and courage to face another year filled with hard work – and often with bad luck – they were certainly entitled to those. Even the Lord Denethor, never a supporter of ancient, heathen beliefs, was wary of disturbing the customs of the field-workers. They were the ones who fed the realm; allowing them to follow some harmless old traditions was but a small price in exchange for their work.

“Why are people leading horses and cattle down to the river?” asked Princess Idis; she would have her eyes on the horses, of course, even though these were simple, heavily-built work-horses, not the magnificent steeds of her own people.

“After the King of the Fair is chosen and brought to his camp, the good beasts will be swum in the river, to bless and cleanse them,” explained Achren. “They say this would ensure that they remain strong and healthy for the rest of the season.”

“Can we watch them?” Idis’ blue eyes glowed in excitement.

“Later,” promised Achren. “We must see first that we get a good place at the Tower of Rollo; a place from where you can see well. It will _not_ be easy – the entire town will be there, and even many people from the outside.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the end, they got an excellent place, of course. How could it have happened otherwise, once the Tower Guard had recognized the daughter of their Lord? Two broad-shouldered, bearded guards, armed with halberds and wearing their best gambesons, escorted them to a small, wooden gallery that had been built for the Lord, his family and his guests, in case they wanted to match the merry spectacle.

Right now, only an old lady was sitting here, wearing an old-fashioned gown in very dark green, her elaborate headdress casting deep shadows upon her thin face. Her hair – what could be seen of it, that is – was pure silver, but her eyes were keen and deep and grey like a frosty winter morning, and her sharp features revealed that she must have been a stunning beauty in her youth. The resemblance to young Achren was so strong that it could only be her namesake, Forlong’s mother and the matron of his House.

Boromir was a little surprised that such an old and noble lady would willingly witness the somewhat unhewn merriment of the common folk. But old Lady Achren had most likely come in her son’s stead who was being too busy with his royal guests to participate. _Someone_ had to represent the Lord’s House, and it was highly unlikely that the proud Lady Almaren could have been persuaded to do so.

“She looks every bit as formidable as my mother,” whispered Húrin, eyeing the old lady warily.

Boromir grinned. “If she scares you so much, perchance you should keep your hands from her granddaughter, cousin mine. She could turn out just like the old matron one day.”

Húrin looked from one woman to another and smiled placidly.

“I do not believe she could frighten me away,” he said. “Let us present ourselves properly, shall we?”

Boromir had no objections, and thus they all got presented to the so far unchallenged ruler of Forlong’s House. The old lady greeted them with what could be considered a friendly manner from such an elderly, bitter person. There was a speculative look in her frosty eyes as she seized up first Boromir, then Húrin.

“I feel like a slab of meat, displayed on the butcher’s counter,” murmured Boromir, as they took seats on the farthest possible spot of the small gallery. Húrin laughed quietly.

“Have a heart, cousin,” he replied. “I believe she has her eye on _me_ , not on you. You are way too young to get dragged into wedded bliss just yet.”

“Sayeth the man who had his wedding on his eighteenth birthday,” Boromir riposted, but Húrin took no offence.

“I was in love,” he replied with a shrug; then he smiled down at his excited daughter who was sitting on the lower level of the gallery with Princess Idis and the three boys. “And I never regretted it. My little fairy was worth giving up my freedom at such a tender age.”

They laughed and watched the jesters and mummers and minstrels who entertained the gathering with rather… raunchy jokes, songs and performances like fire-breathing, cartwheels, juggling and the likes. Finally, a group of colourfully clad men came in procession, dragging with them an obviously reluctant goat – a fairly, large, white billy-goat with impressive, curved horns as thick as a grown man’s arm – onto the open space right before the Tower of Rollo. It was a splendid beast, with a jewelled collar around its thick neck, its beard braided with colourful ribbons, its horns gilded. A richly-embroidered velvet blanket covered its broad back, much the same way the warhorses of the noblest knights wore their _caparison_ s, and it was crowned with a crown woven from wheat that miraculously remained between its great horns, regardless of its forceful protests against being made to such a spectacle.

Little Prince Elphir was thoroughly impressed by the noble beast. He turned around and looked at Achren in askance.

“What is that?” he asked. “Why are the men dragging the poor goat here?”

Achren smiled down at him fondly. “That is the King of the Fair, my Prince,” she answered.

Elphir was so flabbergasted that he forgot to close his mouth for a moment.

“ _A goat_?” he then asked, with the understandable bewilderment of someone who was royalty himself. “The King of the Fair is _a goat_?”

Achren smiled again; the boy was so lovable in his outrage.

“Once upon a time, people believed that the shedding of the blood of their King and his nobles would keep the fields fertile,” she explained. Hearing that, Elphir became very frightened.

“They _slew_ their King and his noblemen?” he asked, wriggling closer to Faramir, who was, after all, _almost_ an esquire already.

“Nay, of course not,” Achren laughed. “They chose a goat in the King’s stead. To mislead the evil wraiths, they treated the goat like a king – they dressed it up, perfumed it, decorated it with jewels and fed it with the best of grain left from the previous harvest – ere sacrificing it in the end.”

“Will _this_ goat be slain, too?” Elphir calmed down a little, understanding that no-one was – or would be – truly sacrificed to the evil spirits.

“Oh, aye, it will,” said Achren. “My father will slay it on the last day of the fair. It will be roasted on the spit, with herbs and rare spices from the South, and everyone would get a little piece from the roast meat. That is why they chose the biggest, fattest goat every year.”

Elphir still seemed a bit disturbed, but the others found the idea of roast goat very appealing and begged to be allowed to go to the fair-closing feast as well. Lord Húrin, however, was not willing to make any promises just yet.

“We shall see,” he said evasively, not sure the ritual slaying of the goat would truly be for the children’s eyes, less so as they had not grown up on a farm to become accustomed to the butcher’s work. Well, Faramir was old enough to face it, and – knowing the customs of the Rohirrim – Princess Idis has probably seen worse, but that did not mean Morwen and Elphir needed to see it, too.

He glanced at Achren for help, and she nodded in understanding.

“We should move,” she said, “for the King of the Fair will now be led to its camp next to the training fields and paraded there during the entire fair. You want to see the cattle and the horses swim in the river, do you not?”

Of course they did, Princess Idis before all, and thus they followed the crowd down to the horse-market, where a splendid tent had been raised for the King of the Fair already. There the good beast could be adored and pampered and fed with grain and hay, so that it would grow even bigger and fatter for the day when it would end its regal role rather abruptly.

But the children had no ears or eyes for the ill-fated King any longer. For right after the goat had been housed in its royal tent, farmers from all around the town came in a long procession leading their cattle and work-horses to swim them in the river. The horses were bridled as prettily as their owners could afford, and they were broadly built, big-boned and heavy-limbed, radiating the strength of the fertile soil itself. A pair of them could certainly pull a four-wheeled cart with a full load, or drag the plough through the hardest of soil.

The cattle were all white, with only a few black hairs rimming their ears – a breed that was only to be found in Lossarnach in all Gondor – with short, blunt horns, and their large, thickly veined udders swollen with milk, almost to the bursting point. Even those who knew naught about farming could see what splendid, fertile beasts they were.

Slowly, carefully led the farmers their prized animals into the cleansing water of the Erui. The good beasts, used to the process from the previous years, went obediently, with only an occasional, low mooing, the brass bells hanging from their powerful necks resounding with their every step. And then they were in the water already, crossing the safe ford with sure feet, only their heads, crowned with flower garlands, rising from the waves.

A great cheer arose when they emerged on the other side again, where the common grazing grounds lay, and people burst into a merry song, praising Nurria, the lady of fields and pastures, firmly believing that no ill thing could happen to their livestock for the rest of the season. Offerings of bridles and butter were flung into the Erui, as signs of gratitude for the rich harvest of this year and as pleas for a similar one in the next.

“That was beautiful,” Princess Idis, as enamoured with horses and other good beasts as anyone in the Mark, declared happily. “I never thought the people of Gondor would know how to value good livestock. I thought they were all book-mad.”

“Well, some of us surely are,” replied Boromir, grinning at his brother who shrugged off his teasing with a smile. “But there are some still who know a good horse or splendid cattle when we see one.”

“As if _you_ would know anything about horses or cattle!” Achren snorted. “You live in a city of stone. How often did you visit the lands of your family to look after them?”

“Alas, those more pleasant family affairs are cousin Húrin’s responsibility,” replied Boromir, losing his mirth all of a sudden. “I was bred and trained to kill things, not to grow them.”

“And thus you keep us safe, so that we can do the growing and the breeding,” said Húrin, laying a calming hand upon his forearm. “Never doubt our gratitude, cousin, for the safety you and your comrades buy for us for the cost of your blood. No-one can do more for one’s land and people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the peoples of Halabor and Lossarnach are two closely related branches of the Old Folk, I let them both use the Bree-calendar. The month-names are taken from the Appendices, obviously. They do not match exactly the months as we understand them, but for simplicity’s sake I assumed that they do.  
> (1) _Mede_ or _Afterlithe_ is July  
>  (2) _Wedmath_ is August  
>  (3) _Halimath_ is September  
>  (4) _Bloodmath_ or _Bloting_ is November


	13. The Choices of Lord Húrin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events surrounding the King of the Fair are based on the old Celtic tradition of Lughnasadh. I tried to keep as close as possible while still adapting it to Middle-earth.  
> I profoundly apologize for not being able to deliver the entire ballad – poetry is not easy to write, especially not when you have a very tight deadline. If I ever manage to finish it, I will add it to the story, honestly! In any case, the fragment is a rewritten version of the first strophes of “Lady Isabel and the elf-knight”, a medieval English ballad.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 13 – THE CHOICES OF LORD HÚRIN**

Fortunately for them all, ere Boromir could have answered, Faramir came running back. The children had strolled forward a few hundred feet, watching the mummers and the jesters, but it seemed that Faramir had found something else – something he wanted to share with his brother.

“Brother, I found a minstrel who knows the ballad of the Lady Khorsheed,” he cried, all but jumping up and down in excitement, which was a rare thing for him to do indeed. “You need to come with me and hear it! Please, brother, you _must_ come! We might never get another chance to hear it if the minstrel leaves!

Hoping that the minstrel’s song would, indeed, lift his spirits again, Boromir followed his little brother to the place left miraculously free among all the stalls and booths. True, ‘twas before one of those water-spenders shaped like some mythical beasts, frequently used by the people attending to the fair, so that there had to be left free to a certain extent; nonetheless, it showed a great eye for the right opportunity to occupy just that place for a performance.

There sat the minstrel on a folding chair, his rebec carefully placed on his knees, ready to play as his audience asked. He was a man of about fifty and of striking appearance, due to his hawkish Southron features. He had a full head of greying, curly black hair, a curved nose and a clipped heard. He carried himself with the easy self-confidence of a man who was valued for his gift; his clothes made of the finest cotton damask of very pale yellow and black, and his belt adorned with gold. ‘Twas obvious that he was one of those wandering minstrels of some wealth who came to the northern part of the realm from Pelargir and most likely had some Haradric blood in their veins, though considered themselves Gondorrim in all that counted.

Two attendants accompanied him, very apparently of the same origins. The young lad of perhaps twenty, or even less, lightly built and graceful in movement, stand behind his chair, holding a beautifully made, seemingly very old psaltery on his arms as if it were his own child. The lad had a round, child-like face, curly dark hair and falsely innocent, amber eyes, full of ill-veiled mischief.

On another chair like the minstrel’s a young woman was sitting, tall and lean, dark-haired and blue-eyed, mayhap a few summers older than the lad, with a thin, oval face and slim shoulders that seemed too bony for a girl of her age. They both wore what must have been their finery: the lad clothes similar to the ones of his master, just of less fine fabric, the girl a gown of deep, bright blue like her eyes, with a girdle of gold braid around her lean hips, her hair braided in red ribbons, with curls arranged artfully around her temples. She had a nine-string dulcimer on her knees and the hammers to play on it rested lightly between the second and third finger of each narrow hand.

“I have met them yesterday, ere I found the books at the silversmith’s,” whispered Faramir. “They are better than the minstrels in Grandfather’s court, even. They might not know Elven ballads, but they all three sing and play beautifully.”

“Why, thank you, young master,” the minstrel, apparently a man of keen ears, said, obviously pleased. “You are mistaken, though, if you think we know no Elven ballads. In truth, we know quite a few of them – we have run into some wandering Elves yesteryear, while travelling up from the southern shores, and they were more than willing to share. I can demonstrate, if that is what you wish.”

“Later, perhaps,” intervened Boromir, not wanting to spend the entire day with listening to them. “My little brother here tells me that you know the ballad of the Lady Khorsheed – is that true?”

“Indeed, I do, my Lord, and we shall be happy to perform for you and your brother,” the experienced eye of the minstrel had seized them up already, calculating the coin he could get out of this demand. “We shall sing it to you in three voices, as it was used to sing in old times, ere the mummers made a lowly spectacle out of it. I shall sing the main voice, if it pleases you, while Tunidor,” he nodded at the lad, “will sing the part of Lord Faelan and Dahud can lend her voice to the Lady Khorsheed. Will that suffice, my Lord?”

“I think is will,” said Boromir; a three-voice performance was a rare thing to hear, even in Dol Amroth.

The minstrel and his attendants fine-tuned their instruments for a moment or two, and then they began to play. The melody was a foreign-sounding one, and even the rhythm was very different from what Gondorian ears were used to; perchance due to a great deal of Southron influence. It was matching, though; after all, the Lady Khorsheed had supposedly been a Southron princess.

Then the minstrel raised his strong, clear voice above the music, and even Boromir, who was a lot less apt to become enraptured with art than his brother, could not help but listen to it, as if bewitched by the song’s beauty.

__

Fair Lady Khorsheed sat in her bower, sewing  
Aye, as the gowans grew gay  
There she heard Lord Faelan blowing his horn  
The first morn on Thrimilch Day(1).

The voice of the girl Dahud now took over from him, pealing like little silver bells in a fresh breeze.

__

If I had you horn that I hear blowing  
And you proud lord to sleep in my bosom

And the voice of the lad Tunidor now answered her, soaring sweetly like that of a lark.

__

‘Tis a strange matter, fair lady mine.  
I cannot blow my horn by you call on me.  
But will ye go to yon grey stone Castle?  
If ye cannot go, I shall cause you to ride.

And thus it continued, verse after verse, more performing than merely reciting the long forgotten events, from the first glimpse the imprisoned Lady Khorsheed and Lord Faelan, one of Lord Forlong’s apparently dashing and valiant ancestors, had gotten of each other ‘til the glorious event of their wedding, to which the entire town had been invited.

Faramir was delighted beyond measure, and even Boromir had to admit that he liked both the music and the performance. He gave the minstrel three silver pieces, one for each performer, to show his satisfaction.

“I shall recommend you to Prince Adrahil, good minstrel,” he said, “if you would tell me your name.”

The minstrel’s eyes lit up like fireworks; after all, catching the eye of a patron as wealthy and generous as the Prince of Dol Amroth was known to be was a chance that happened once in a lifetime.

“That is most generous of you, my Lord,” he said with an elegant bow that mixed gratitude and pride in the most amazing manner. “My name is Priavel, my Lord, Priavel of Pelargir. For that is where I was born, though my journeys have taken me across the realm several times.”

“Let us hope that you shall be able to travel to Dol Amroth, soon,” said Boromir. “I am certain my brother would enjoy hearing your singing again.”

With that, the brothers took their leave from the minstrel and his attendants and went to rejoin their own company.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Achren and Húrin had been strolling through the fair, with one eye on the children all the time. They seemed happy enough with that arrangement that allowed them to follow their own fancies, while knowing they would not be left alone among all those strangers. True, there were also the guards, but – as Morwen declared – no guards could ever hope to compare themselves with Lord Húrin of Minas Tirith; and the other children whole-heartedly agreed.

“I fear I have offended your cousin, my Lord,” said Achren after a while. “That was not my intention; I am truly sorry.”

“Boromir is not easily offended, as a rule,” replied Húrin. “Yet you unknowingly managed to hit a sore spot. The Lord Steward, as much as he loves his firstborn – and he _does_ love Boromir dearly – cannot always hide his disappointment about Boromir not becoming a scholar as well as a warrior.”

“Why not?” asked Achren curiously. Húrin shrugged.

“Whatever my esteemed uncle might think, not everyone is born with an insatiable hunger for bookish knowledge. Boromir was but a toddler of four when he already played with toy soldiers. I remember a day, Faramir was not even born yet, when Queen Morwen of Rohan was visiting with her daughter and grandson. Boromir and Théodred became friends within moments, and ere anyone realized what they were up to, they were laying on their bellies on the floor, using Aunt Finduilas’ priceless Khandian silk scarf to represent the river Anduin, playing Corsairs and Riders with wooden ships and mounted warriors.”(2)

“They had known each other for so long?” Achren was honestly surprised. Húrin nodded.

“Those were happier times; although, unbeknownst to anyone at court, Aunt Finduilas had already fought the dry sickness. After Faramir’s birth, her condition kept worsening ‘til her untimely death. Uncle Denethor was never the same afterwards.”

“They say the Lord Denethor is a harsh man,” said Achren carefully.

“It may seem so sometimes,” Húrin allowed, “yet you must consider that he has a heavy burden to bear, too. ‘Tis not easy to work for the good of Gondor day and night, the way he does. Harsh he might be, but he is also a noble and wise man. They say, his knowledge of old lore is greater than anyone else’s in the realm. I wish his life would not be consumed by duty so completely, so that he had more time to teach me.”

“To _teach_ you?” repeated Achren in surprise. Húrin nodded.

“I am the Warden of he Keys, my Lady; should anything happen to the Steward – Valar beware – the responsibility for Minas Tirith would fall to me.”

“To _you_?” Achren frowned. “Not to Lord Boromir?”

“Nay,” said Húrin, “not ‘til he has taken over the white sceptre from his father. He is the Captain of the White Tower, and he will be the Captain-General of Gondor once he is old enough for that, but the Warden of the Keys is responsible for the White City itself, in good times and bad times, in times of war and in times of peace.”

He paused and gave Achren a serious look, as if trying to seize her up, whether she would have the strength for the task he had in mind for her.

“I wonder if you would be willing to come and live in my city of stone,” he then said. “Not anyone could do that; we have learned that truth while facing the sad fate of Aunt Finduilas. I do not wish for you to meet that fate. Yet I would very much like to take you with me to Minas Tirith; to make you the Lady of my House, if ‘tis your wish as well.”

Most young ladies at the court would have swooned from delight, had they got such an offer. But Achren was apparently not like most young ladies.

“You will have to give me time to think about it,” she said. “We have just met, after all. And though I have no doubt that my father would be pleased by this match – not to mention his wife or my grandmother – he loves me enough to allow me my own choice. As for that, I would like to know what I am getting myself into. For though I like you well enough for an unknown stranger, and lovely and loveable though your little daughter is, there certainly is more about your House than just the two of you.”

“There is,” Húrin nodded, “and ‘tis not my wish to mislead you in any way by showing a picture that is brighter than the truth would be.”

“So tell me the truth, then,” she said. “I am Forlong’s daughter; I can bear it.”

“The truth is, there is much grief and sorrow in my House,” answered Húrin slowly. “My father has been ailing for some time now, ever since he suffered a hunting accident, and it does not seem as if he would get any better, ever. ‘Tis more likely that he will wither and die, slowly, inadvertedly. My mother is your grandmother not unlike: a woman of strong opinions and an iron will – she is the Lord Steward’s sister, after all.”

He paused to collect his thoughts. The next part would be painful, despite the years that had gone by, but it was time for him to face his loss and get done with grieving.

“My… my first wife, may the Valar bless her, had not an easy time with Mother,” he continued. “But again, Aerien was very young when we wed, barely of age, and Mother had not focussed all her considerable strength on easing Father’s discomfort back then. Would I to wed again, my new wife would have it easier. But she would still have to be strong; to shoulder the burden of a big household; to care for a motherless child and to bear all this alone in the times of my absence. For at least once a year, I would be gone for weeks, to look after our family’s lands in Anórien; to bring in the taxes and to act as the Steward’s deputy in legal matters. ‘Tis would not be an easy life for any wife of mine, and I could offer but little reward for all the sacrifices.”

Achren did not seem frightened by those chances at all.

“I see,” she said calmly. “Indeed, ‘tis not an easy task for a second wife to master, although I am well confident that I would be strong enough to shoulder it, should I choose to accept your proposition. But pray tell me, my Lord, what is it you can offer as a reward for such arduous labours?”

Húrin smiled. ‘Twas an infectious smile that made him look even younger than his years.

“All I can offer is my person,” he said. “That I would be faithful to my wife; that I would be shield and support for her as she would be the same for me. That I would love her and respect her to the best of my strength; that I would stay with her ‘til death do us part. This I can and do promise, however little it might be.”

“And this would suffice, for what else could any wife ask her husband for?” said Achren. “Yet I still want to think about it first, for all this came a little sudden for me. Promise tat you shall not speak to my father ere I say you so.”

Húrin inclined his head in his best courtly manner.

“You have my word, lady mine,” he replied, for though Lord Forlong would have the right – and the necessary paternal authority – to make his daughter wed him, there would be no blessing on a forced marital bond. Of that he was certain.

Being done with the serious discussion, they lengthened their stride to catch up with the children who had gotten too far already. Boromir and Faramir also joined them a short while later, discussing the skills of the minstrel Faramir had found delightedly. Listening for a moment to Faramir’s excited words, Achren nodded.

“Aye, Master Priavel is well known in Father’s court,” she said. “Many a feast has he adorned with his singing and his music. I did not know he was in town again; he has visited the southern fiefs for the last couple of years. I shall tell Father; he will, no doubt, hire the man to perform at Herumor’s knighting ceremony.”

That possibility seemed to delight Faramir greatly, and thus they went up to the Castle together, discussing music they loved, songs they preferred and skilled minstrels they had known, on their way back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) _Thrimilch_ or _Thimridge_ is the equivalent of May in the Bree-calendar  
>  (2) The scene described here will take place in the third chapter of “Exercise of Vital Powers”… eventually.


	14. The Dragon Lord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in all my stories, the formidable Lord Orchaldor is played by the one and only Sean Connery. Imagine him as he appeared in the first “Highlander” movie – just less flashy.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 14 – THE DRAGON LORD**

Having taken his leave from Madenn, Herumor left the ladies’ wing in the Castle to look after his horses. Not that he needed to do so – Lord Forlong’s horse-master hailed from Rohan, after all, which meant that any horse in the stables would get the most thorough care. And Rohirrim understood more about horses than anyone else in Middle-earth, with the possible exception of Elves – although not even _that_ could be said for certain.

So yea, Herumor knew that his horses were in the best possible hands. Yet the Swan Knights, from the lowest esquire to the mightiest Captain, were taught to take care of their own steeds. And while Herumor willingly indulged himself in some lash behaviour – like allowing his uncle’s grooms to do the mucking and other tasks that involved dirt – he would go to see the good beasts at least once a day.. several times, if he could do so.

Like all young knights, Herumor had brought two horses with him: a red roan _destrier_ – a well-trained war stallion – with a reddish-brown coat and almost blond mane and tail, and a strong, lean, hot-blooded _courser_ with a Haradric desert steed or two among its ancestors. This one was a blood bay, with dark red hair and a black mane, tail and lower legs.

Unlike most knights, who preferred palfreys when on a longer journey, Herumor liked faster, fierier horses. As he was a lightly built, slender young man himself, he could ride a fast horse easily, without slowing down its speed. And while he valued his great war stallion, the slim, fiery Cealaigh was his favourite, whose ancestors had been brought from Pelargir to Halabor by Master Suanach, the old mercer, and probably descended from the famous Haradric courier horses.

He gave both steeds some wrinkled apples that he had pilfered from the kitchens (being beloved by his uncle’s cooks came in handy sometimes) and was about to take out Cealaigh for his daily ride, when a groom came in running, out of breath with excitement.

“Master Herumor, Master Herumor!” the boy cried. “The messenger of your father has arrived! Lord Orchaldor will be here within the hour!”

Herumor all but forgot about his horses at that news. Let the horse-master move them around, he decided at once. He had not seen his father for four years, due to the long distance between Dol Amroth and Halabor. He had left his home as a fourteen-year-old youth (a spoiled brat, as Master Andrahar, the Prince’s new armsmaster liked to point out) and would now return in his father’s company as a grown man – and a Swan Knight.

He hurried back to his chambers to put on his surcoat. Running around in a shirt was accepted in his uncle’s home. His father had more formal demands, even more so in public, where their underlings could see them. And even though the people here were, technically, his _uncle_ ’s subjects, Herumor wanted to make a good first impression as a grown man.

He wanted to make his father proud.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Having given the news of the expected arrival of one of his oldest, most faithful vassals, Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth descended from the guest chambers to the great, stone-paved courtyard of Lord Forlong’s Castle in his own royal person. Small and insignificant the honour(1) of the House of Erellont now might be, once they had held extensive lands in South Ithilien – which was where the alliance to the Princes of Dol Amroth hailed from – and their ancestors had sailed with Anárion from the sinking Númenor. Very few families – aside from that of the Stewards and the Princes of Dol Amroth – could say _that_ … and what was more, prove a clear line of descent from father to father.

Besides, the Lords of Halabor had always been valiant and faithful, in the grand days of their town as well as now, when it had long since faded into insignificance. Thus Prince Adrahil felt it only proper to great in person the man who not only was a steadfast ally but had also been his friend, since their training as Swan Knights. And even though Adrahil himself never earned his white belt, due to his weakened health, they had remained in touch, exchanging messages whenever they could. Lord Orchaldor faithfully provided the Prince with tidings about Rohan, Anórien, the moves of the Dunlendings and the Hill-men as well as the raids of the Khimmer jarls of Rhûn, and from time to time, he sent promising youths from his court to Dol Amroth to be trained as Swan Knights.

His only son was just the latest of those promising younglings.

 _And just like his father, young Herumor turned out a fine young man, who will bring honour upon his House_ , the Prince thought with proprietary pride.

Said fine young man was already waiting in the courtyard when the Prince got down, freshly groomed and wearing his best surcoat. Adrahil suppressed a smile. Cleanliness had always been a special trait of the Swan Knights, and it seemed that Lord Orchaldor had embraced and cultivated that special virtue in his own house thoroughly.

The children, too, had returned from the fair with Lord Húrin and Boromir, and with them was young Lady Achren, looking radiant yet pensive. Even Madenn came down from the women’s wing; like everyone in Forlong’s House, she loved and respected Lord Orchaldor dearly and was happy to see him again, after such long absence.

Leaving Faramir to the tender graces of his cousins and friends, Boromir strolled over to Herumor, who seemed torn between joy and anxiety. Boromir wondered whether Lord Orchaldor, of whom his own father had spoken in unusually respectful tones, would be a stern and demanding man. He decided to risk asking the somewhat… sensitive question.

To his relief, Herumor shook his head, laughing.

“Nay, he is not,” he replied, “at least not to me. Ask your grandsire or Master Andrahar, if you have the chance. They will tell you that I was spoiled rotten when I arrived in Dol Amroth, four years ago – the worst thing a doting father could make of an only child.”

“Oh, come on!” Boromir gave him an amused glance. “You could not have been that _bad_!”

“Nay – I was worse than bad,” Herumor laughed. “I was… well, I was _spoiled_. I honestly expected the servants to hop around me all the time, like at home, the bath being brought to my room each evening… and when I was first sentenced to kitchen duty for some minor trespassing, I almost bolted.”

“Not from stable duty?” asked Boromir, grinning.

“Well, that, too,” Herumor admitted. “Although as a child I used to _love_ being underfoot when the grooms were mucking out the stables. One could get so gloriously filthy, and the serving ladies always screamed so wonderfully in outrage.”

“That must have been a first for the Swan Knights,” said Boromir. “A lordling who actually loves muck.”

“Not when _I had_ to clean it out of the stalls, I did _not_ ,” replied Herumor. “Getting dirty in person because I was ordered to do so offended me greatly. To tell you the truth, stable duty is one of the very few things from Swan Knight training I am _not_ going to miss when I go home.”

The sound of the silver trumpets interrupted their laughter, signalling the arrival of Lord Orchaldor and his company. Herumor fell silent at once; his eyes, now almost grey in the stray light, all but glued to the road. His hands clenched with a force that made his knuckles stand out white from his tanned skin.

Just a few moments later, a company of about twenty mounted men rode up to the Castle. Leading them was a standard bearer, with the ancient coat-of-arms of the House of Erellont: a black shield with a rampant, winged silver dragon upon it; on top of the shield, there was a silver band with three lily-white gladden flowers.(2)

“Silver and black?” asked Boromir in surprise. “I thought only the Kings and Stewards wore those colours; and a dragon is a fairly unusual heraldic beast.”

“Well, they say silver and black are the colours of Westernesse,” replied Herumor, "and thus they were worn by my forefather, Erellont, the founder of our House, who sailed with Anárion himself, after the Fall of Númenor. As we have descended from him in an unbroken line, we are entitled to wear the colours.”

“That still does not explain the dragon, though,” said Boromir.

Herumor shrugged. “The first father of our line was supposedly killed by one of the winged dragons in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, defending his liege heroically ‘til his last breath. At least according to family legend; no-one can tell for sure whether it is true or not, for truly, who but the most ancient of Elves still lingering in Middle-earth could remember things that happened two Ages ago? ‘Tis said, however, that his descendants were brought to Númenor as a reward for his sacrifice; and it is true that Erellont of Andúnië and his forefather before him had always worn the dragon upon their shields, for unknown generations.”

“Yours must be one of the most ancient families in Gondor,” said Boromir. “What about the gladden flower, though?”

“Oh, that is a somewhat better-founded family tradition,” laughed Herumor. “According to ancient records, Erellont’s two younger brothers and his second-born son were among the men who accompanied Isildur in the Battle of the Gladden Fields. They were all slain, as you may guess, and we have been wearing those three flowers upon our shield to honour them ever since. There should be some dusty old scroll in the Hidden Archives of Minas Tirith that proves it.”

Boromir nodded, still a little amazed that such a small, half-forgotten House could have such long and proud history, but then his attention shifted back to the small company of men approaching them. There were half a dozen knights, wearing divided colours and emblems: those of their lord on one side, those of their own House on the other one. And ahead of the company, right behind the standard bearer, rode the Lord of Halabor himself, Orchaldor son of Oromendil, Herumor’s father.

This was the first time ever that Boromir got to see him in the flesh, and he could not help but being impressed. Compared with the scions of other ancient families, whose bloodlines showed definite signs of decline, Lord Orchaldor radiated power and self-confidence. ‘Twas never easy to guess the true age of someone with such a pure streak of Dúnadan blood, but knowing that he was a few years older than Denethor, Boromir thought him to be around sixty, give or take a year or two. He was tall and broadly built – like Boromir himself – yet wiry and agile, his angular face deeply lined, the angles only softened by a neatly trimmed grey beard. His long hair was greying, too – not the silver of truly high age but the iron grey of a man beyond his first youth yet still in his prime – and tied back from his face in a tight ponytail. His was a stern and powerful face; there could be no doubt that Herumor had inherited his softer features and more slender build from his mother.

The Lord of Halabor was clad in a deep purple surcoat that was almost of the same hue as the cunningly embroidered emblem of his House upon his breast, outlined only by a thin silver rimming. He rode a big, black palfrey with a white star between its eyes. It was a beautiful beast, very obviously a Rohirric breed, with a silver-adorned bridle and saddle. Lord Orchaldor rode it with the easy confidence of a man who had practically grown up in the saddle. His dark grey eyes seemed almost black in the light of the late afternoon, and they made the impression as if they could pierce through flesh and bone, even from such distance.

‘Twas hard to imagine this man, who even wore the white belt of a Swan Knight, as the lord of a small, unimportant fishing town and some modest lands and woods around it. Any warlord of fallen Númenórë would have paled, compared with him. In this family, the blood of Westernesse was certainly not declining yet.

On his right, a young knight in his thirties rode: a hawk-faced, raven-haired, handsome young man, with a pointed beard. He, too, seemed of solid Dúnadan stock.

“That is Lord Peredur,” explained Herumor at Boromir’s question; “the son of Father’s bailiff and estate steward. They say, one day he will be even better than his father. In any case, his House is the ranking vassal of ours; and he is a Swan Knight, too. He and Father are the only ones in Anórien, as far as I know. I shall be the third, soon,” he added with well-deserved pride.

The company rode up to the Castle with respectable speed, considering that they had travelled more than a hundred and twenty miles in a mere two or three days. There Lord Orchaldor swung from the saddle and bent his knee before Prince Adrahil, touching his sword-hand to his brow, his lips and his heart, in the time-honoured gesture of deep respect, and spoke the words of greeting in a somewhat accented yet otherwise flawless Sindarin.

Boromir was beyond impressed. Although the Grey Tongue was still widely spoken among the nobles of Gondor, above all in Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith, the smaller nobles had mostly discarded it in favour of the local dialect of Westron. Of course, a Swan Knight would have had to learn it properly, but one needed constant use of a language to keep it at such a passable level. Small wonder that the Steward had found Lord Orchaldor a worthy counsellor; the Lord of Halabor seemed to have some bookish interests, too.

Young Lord Peredur followed the example of his liege, paying their overlord, the old Prince, due respect. Adrahil embraced them both, giving them the customary brotherly kiss. Only then turned the Lord of Halabor to the side to look around for his son.

Their greeting was strangely subdued, considering how long they had not seen each other, but Lord Orchaldor probably was not the man to show his feelings publicly. ‘Twas an attitude Boromir knew all too well from his own family. Father and son clasped forearms in warrior fashion, before a brief, tight embrace, after which the traditional fatherly kiss was delivered. But the deep eyes of the old Lord were shining with love and pride. Subdued he might be, yet there could be no doubt about his feelings.

After that, the members of Lord Orchaldor’s company got the chance to greet their young Lord, which they did with an almost exuberant joy – Herumor must have been well-loved among his father’s subjects. Then the grooms of the Castle came and led their horses away, and the Lord and his knights were escorted up to the Great Hall to meet their host.

‘Twas a loud and happy reunion, for the Lord Forlong was not a man to hold back, and there were bear hugs and booming exclamations of happiness, and one could see that there was genuine love and friendship between these two kinsmen, rarely though they got to see each other. Lord Orchaldor loosened up considerably in the company of his late wife’s family. He joked with Forlong, embraced and kissed his nieces in a fatherly manner and held on his knees little Tarannon, who was showed the guests for the first time.

Forlong’s Heir was a small, black-haired, grey-eyed boy, pretty and merry, who looked very much like his mother in colours. But he had nothing of the coldness of the Lady Almaren in him, it seemed, and looked up to his big, loud, good-natured father with adoration… a feeling that was apparently mutual.

Even old Lady Achren showed the first genuine smile Boromir had seen from her so far. She obviously loved her only grandson dearly, but admired and respected Lord Orchaldor a lot more than she did her own son. She seemed to be one of those blood-obsessed Dúnadan ladies, no matter how thin the trail of Númenórean blood in her own veins might have been.

Thus they spent the late afternoon in merry conversation and friendly banter, ‘til they sat down to the Lord’s table and had another one of those lavish evening meals customary in Forlong’s house. ‘Twas a delightful event, and they stayed together late in the night, after he ladies retired and the children had been sent to their rooms, sharing the tidings from the various provinces of the realm.

When the talk turned to more personal matters, Boromir excused himself; he was not family, and those things were of little interest for him. Taking a short detour to make sure Faramir was sleeping peacefully, he went over to the chambers and the Rohirrim and spent half the night in the company of Erkenbrand and Théodred, listening to the songs of the Mark and sharing the excellent ale the Riders had brought with them for this very purpose.

He had always felt a strange kinship to these joyous warriors who cared little for books and lore but had such a simple, honest view on the world. Despite being under constant threat from the Dunlending and lately from Isengard, the Riders of Rohan had somehow managed to keep their joy in life, good music, good ale, heroic sagas and fiery women untouched by sorrow, unlike the Men of Gondor. Boromir sometimes envied them but always enjoyed their company. And the Rohirrim liked him, too, welcoming him among themselves whenever he sought them out.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Although sent back to his room with the other children, Liahan had gone straight into Prince Adrahil’s bedchamber instead. He was the old Prince’s only page here; the other children could do as they pleased, but _he_ had duties. It was his task to disrobe his Lord, bring him a nightshirt and the mantle to keep him warm then bring him to the brazier to comb his head before going to bed.

The servants had already spread the linens over the bed and laid the head sheet and the pillows. All Liahan had to do was to draw the curtains, once the old Prince was in bed, as the basin and the chamber pot had, too, been discretely places to their usual places.

The boy climbed onto the large armchair at the window to wait for his Lord. ‘Twas almost completely dark in the room, save from the embers glowing in the brazier, but he had good night eyes. He could see enough to find his way around in Adrahil’s bedchamber * or to make out small objects in the dim glow.

He opened the soft leather pouch hanging from his belt and strayed its contents into his palm to admire them again. Small items those were and few in number: a nicely carved comb he had bought for his sister and a brooch made of some transparent, amber-hued stone, in the middle of which a small insect was trapped forever. He had got that one for his mother, and had bargained and argued and begged for it, as his coin had not been enough to buy it.

The gemstone trader had remained hard, though, and Liahan would have had to leave the brooch behind, had little Lady Morwen not simply dumped all _her_ coins into his hands, deciding cheerfully that she did not need them; and besides, she always could get more from her father. Thus Liahan had been able to buy the brooch for his mother, after all, and the comb for his sister. Even so, he could not buy gifts for his other siblings – fortunately, those were all older and did not expect him to do so – and he could not even dream of buying the little toy Fountain Guard for himself.

But that was all right. He was too old to play with toys anymore, was he not? He served the Prince of Dol Amroth now and had important duties. And what if his heart still ached sometimes for small things he could not have? Those things never truly mattered.

When Prince Adrahil returned to his bedchamber, late in the night, he found Liahan asleep in the big chair, still clutching his precious gifts in his hand. The old Prince shook his head fondly, carefully lifted the small, pliant body of the boy from the chair and carried him to bed, without waking him up.

Mayhap his daughter Ivriniel had been right. Liahan was too duty-bound for his tender age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) _Honour_ also meant the lands and other goods of a nobleman in the Middle Ages.  
>  (2) Under gladden flowers you should actually understand the heraldic _fleurs-de-lis_ , iris flowers, which still are widely used in modern heraldry. I chose them to make a connection between Lord Orchaldor’s family and some great historic events of Middle-earth.  
> Sean Connery as Lord Orchaldor. Photomanip by   
> [](http://pics.livejournal.com/wiseheart/pic/0000ca77/)


	15. Fathers, Sisters, Daughters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the description of Herumor’s gift sword, I used the daggers from the Barrow-downs as orientation. It turned out a bit different, though.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

**CHAPTER 15 – FATHERS, SISTERS, DAUGHTERS**

While the ladies retired early from the Great Hall, it did not mean they went to bed immediately. Here was a lot of fuss ‘til the poor maids bathed Lady Almaren and her son, helped the lady to her night shift, combed her hair properly and prepared her bed according to her demands. She certainly was a… _demanding_ mistress, not easily satisfied and not soft of words to those she could command around.

“Small wonder she has brought her own maids from Pelargir,” commented Achren bitingly. “ _Ours_ might not withstand temptation to slip something in her wine… or to throttle her in her sleep.”

Madenn laughed quietly, knowing a jest when she heard one. They were lovely together, sitting on Achren’s balcony - like the Sun and the Moon; like day and night.

“Peace has become a rare thing in these halls since she has moved into the ladies’ wing,” she agreed. “I can understand that you are bitter about that. Those used to be your mother’s chambers, after all.”

“They are just rooms,” replied Achren with a shrug. “Had I known my mother, even if only for a few years, Almaren’s presence would bother me more, I deem. But as I have no memories of Mother…” she shrugged again. “What bothers me more is the fact that she not truly belongs here – and never would. Grandmother should allow Father to choose his own wives; he would make better choices.”

“Mayhap,” allowed Madenn, though not entirely without doubt. “But what is done is done, and Father has no other choice than to live with that poisonous snake as well as he can. What about _your_ choices, though?”

“What choices?” Achren tried to evade the question, but Madenn just laughed.

“Have you truly hoped that your little stroll with Lord Húrin would go unnoticed? There were guards with you, and servants at the fair; and when Grandmother came home, I could almost hear the sound of the wedding bells.”

“Well, I certainly will _not_ marry just to make Grandmother happy,” declared Achren angrily. “That is one of Father’s weaknesses which I have _not_ inherited. ‘Tis a shame that you have not been equally fortunate.”

“What are you talking about?” Madenn was understandable bewildered.

“You always do everything to please others,” said Achren. “’Tis time that you would begin to think of yourself, for a change.”

“Oh, you need not to worry,” replied Madenn. “I know very well what I am doing.”

“And that would be?” Achren arched an eyebrow. She looked eerily like their grandmother in that moment.

“Well, I could go to Halabor and live under Uncle’s outstretched hand,” said Madenn with a shrug. “Herumor certainly did his best to talk me into going with them, and I have no doubt that Uncle would take me in like his own.”

“He would,” Achren nodded. “He takes blood bonds very seriously – and he likes you well enough. Are you considering…”

“Nay,” Madenn shook her head. “I am not doing things by halves. I have been Forlong’s daughter long enough; ‘tis time I accepted who – or _what_ – I truly am.”

“You are Forlong’s daughter,” reminded her Achren gently. “You will _always_ remain his daughter; just like me.”

“For him and for you, perhaps,” said Madenn. “But in everyone else’s eyes I am just the base-born daughter of a common woman. ‘Tis best for everyone when I return to my own stock.”

“Is it the best for _you_?” asked Achren. This had been an ongoing argument between the two of them in the recent years. Madenn nodded.

“I strongly believe that it is,” she said. “But what about you? Do you know what you should do?”

“Not yet,” admitted Achren. “I do like Lord Húrin just fine, but…”

“Has he asked you?” interrupted Madenn.

Achren nodded. “Aye, he has. This afternoon, while we attended to the fair. ‘Twas an open and honest offer – and I do believe I can shoulder the tasks his wife would have to carry out. I have been taught well; Grandmother looked into it, as you know. I even believe I could grow to love him… and his little girl _is_ adorable.”

“That she is,” Madenn agreed. “And she needs a mother badly. So, why are you hesitating?”

“I know not,” Achren sighed. “’Tis foolish, is it not? I will have to get wedded one day – I _wish_ to have a family, if truth must be told. I just have not expected it to happen so suddenly. And the thought of wedding a man I have not even known ‘til two days ago frightens me.”

“You knew this would happen one day,” reminded her Madenn gently. “Daughters of your status rarely are allowed to choose their husbands. You are luckier than most, as Father is quite lenient towards us.”

“Of course,” Achren nodded. “It just never seemed so _real_ ; ‘til now.”

“Father would never force you, you know that,” said Madenn, understanding her anxiety all too well.

“I know,” replied Achren, “but I know as well that I would be hard-pressed to find a better-suited husband.”

“This means you shall accept?” asked Madenn.

“Mayhap I shall,” said Achren thoughtfully. “I just… I just need time to get used to the thought. At least once I am gone, you can leave, too.”

“You need not to make any hasty decisions on my behalf,” said Madenn warmly. “I have all the time of the world now. I can wait.”

“Mayhap so, but ‘tis better for you, too, to care for your own future while you still have the strength to do so,” replied Achren. “You and your mother have been separated long enough.”

“True,” admitted Madenn with a melancholic smile. “I am looking forward to be with her at last.”

“It seems there will be profound changes, for both of us,” Achren’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and she hugged her sister tightly. “I shall miss you.”

“So shall I,” Madenn held her for a moment longer. “I am certain, though, that our paths will cross again. Even if you shall become one of the noblest ladies of the White City and I shall remain a mere healer.”

“It matters little what we might become,” replied Achren solemnly. “We shall always remain Forlong’s daughters, and no-one can ever take _that_ from us.”

“Nay,” Madenn agreed. Then she let go of her sister and rose to leave. “We should go to bed now. There will be much work to do tomorrow, to prepare everything for Herumor’s knighting ceremony the day after.”

“Have a good night… what is left of it,” Achren walked her sister to the door, to bolt it after her departure.

Neither of them noticed the Lady Almaren’s most trusted elderly maid hovering in a shadowy corner.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morn, the people of the Castle rose early, for indeed, there was much work to do to prepare the upcoming ceremony. The carpenters began to construct the place of the event right after first meal, and the merry thuds of their hammers could be heard everywhere in the Castle as they worked in the courtyard. Pages and esquires were cleaning and polishing various pieces or armour furiously. Laundresses laboured in the wash-house to have the finest clothes of the Lord, his family, and their guests in perfect order. Grooms were scrubbing and walking the chosen horses, so that they would be in their best shape for the tournament. The kitchens were in utter uproar, and the huntsmen had been sent out to the Lord’s woods to bring in delicious venison for the festive table.

Although it would have been the Lady Almaren’s duty – and her privilege – to oversee the preparations, old Lady Achren had grabbed the reins from her daughter-in-law firmly, declaring that she had still much to learn about how a proper household in Lossarnach had to be run. The matron employed the help of her granddaughters instead (at least they had been taught by her personally) and even that of Forlong’s chatelaine, despite the fact that she despised Tynellas for having been Forlong’s mistress once. Things, indeed, ran smoothly under their experienced hands, although one could only guess how the Lady of the house took in this slighting, which most likely had not been the first one.

Thus Lord Húrin had no chance to talk to Achren again. But he was content nonetheless, watching her brisk and efficient manner as she dealt with household tasks and upset servants. A woman’s true skills never showed better than at times when her house was overrun by guests during a feast, and it seemed that Achren could handle just about everything and everyone – including her own grandmother.

“She is nice,” declared little Morwen. “She never screams with the servants as the lady Almaren does, and yet they do everything she tells them to do. She could handle Grandmother just fine, I guess.”

The Warden of the Keys, second-ranking official of the White City and highest authority after the Steward of Gondor himself, gave his sweet-faced, eleven-year-old daughter a slightly panicked look.

“What are you talking about, little one?”

The look _Morwen_ gave _him_ was that patented, patient one bright children liked to give their beloved yet slightly… slow-witted parents.

“You do want to wed her, do you not?” she asked in a manner that made it clear that she agreed with her father’s choice.

Recovering a little, Húrin nodded slowly. “That I do, aye,”

“Have you asked her at all?” demanded Morwen, obviously ready and willing to do the task herself if her father should be too much of a coward, and Húrin shuddered from the image how _that_ would be done. Like most children of her age, Morwen had the tendency to be very straightforward.

“Aye, I have,” he replied hurriedly, to nip any possible actions from his daughter in the bud. Having an eleven-year-old to get him a wife would have been more than his pride could bear. Even if said eleven-year-old was his own adorable daughter.

“Oh, how splendid!” Morwen clapped her hands in excitement. “What has she said? When will the wedding take place?”

“Whoa, slowly, slowly, little one!” Húrin laughed. “She has not accepted yet.”

“She has not?” replied Morwen with a dissatisfied frown. “Why not? Mayhap you asked the wrong question?”

“Nay, I think not,” replied Húrin, resigning to the apparent fact that his daughter considered him a fool. “She wanted to think about if first. ‘Tis not an easy decision to make, you know.”

“Oh, aye, it is, if you know what you will,” declared Morwen with the unshakable self-confidence of the precocious child that she was. “You see, _I know_ for certain that I shall marry Elphir when we are all grown up.”

Húrin needed all his considerable self-discipline (trained into him by his formidable mother) not to laugh out loudly. Although, knowing Morwen’s iron determination – she was of the same stock as the Steward of Gondor, after all, and that meant a lot – he would not be surprised if the girl succeeded in the end.

“That is still quite a few years away yet,” he replied in a forcibly serious manner. “We should work on _my_ wedding first, should we not?”

Morwen nodded eagerly.

“Shall I help you?” she asked, and Húrin had to suppress a grin again.

“I think we should give Lady Achren a little more time to decide,” he said mildly.

Morwen sighed and shook her curly head in exasperation.

“Grown-ups,” she said with a long-suffering mien and ran down to the Castle’s inner garden, where she had spotted Elphir at the fishing pond.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After midday meal, Prince Adrahil called Herumor to his chambers. Lord Orchaldor and his chief knight, Peredur, were already present. Liahan stood in the background, quiet and attentive as always.

“My Lord Prince,” Herumor bowed respectfully, “how can I serve you?”

“I wanted to speak to you, for you shall become one of my Swan Knights tomorrow, and a Swan Knight needs a proper weapon,” said the Prince. “I know that the hereditary sword of your forefathers got lost in battle, several generations ago. Your father has gained great honour with a lesser blade, but I find that your House has earned to wield a worthy sword again. Liahan…”

The little page stepped forth, carrying a sword upon his outstretched arms. It stuck in a black scabbard that was adorned with serpent-forms in silver and red, as if they were breathing fire.

“Here is your sword,” declared the Prince. “Try it!”

Herumor laid a hand upon the sword-hilt carefully. When drawn, it gleamed almost on its own, wrought of some strange metal, light and strong. The wavy sheen of the blade revealed that it was sea-steel, perchance made in Númenor itself. A he swung it around to examine its balance, it proved as good as its steel, and it suited his own lighter stature much better than the heavier sword he had inherited, whether he wielded it one- or two-handed.

“How do you like it?” asked the Prince, though Herumor’s dreamy eyes had answered that question already.

“I heard of this sword before, my Lord,” replied the young man in awe. “’Tis _Starfall_ , is it not, the blade that came from Númenor almost an Age ago; it belonged to one of the lords who sailed with Anárion, just like Erellont. They say, ‘tis named thusly as it has been forged from a piece of iron that had fallen from the sky. ‘Twas one of the four blades you once offered Master Andrahar to choose from.”(1)

“Indeed it was,” the Prince nodded, “and now I offer it to you.”

“But my Lord, ‘tis an heirloom of your House!” cried out Herumor in concern. “Surely Prince Elphir would wear it proudly when he grows up.”

“No doubt,” agreed the Prince. “But there are several more precious blades in our armoury, and I do not want _Starfall_ to lie collecting dust for ten more years. Your House is probably the only one in Gondor that is older than even mine. What worthier place could I possibly find for a sword that came from Númenor like your ancestors? The truth is, Prince Angelimir wanted to gift _Starfall_ upon your father already, but it was too light a sword for a man of Lord Orchaldor’s stature,” he grinned at his old friend and vassal. “You, however, were born to wield it.”

That was undoubtedly true, and Herumor blushed profoundly. To be honest, he had fallen in love with that magnificent sword at first sight, as if it had been forged for him, more than three thousand years earlier, in the smithy of some long-dead Númenórean master-smith.

“I am honoured, my Lord,” he stammered with shining eyes. Adrahil nodded.

“Then I am content,” he said with a small smile. “I am certain you shall wield it with courage and honour.”

Herumor promised to do so readily, unable to tear his eyes from the sword, now resting in its scabbard again upon Liahan’s arms. He was overwhelmed, which was understandable. Not only was he about to be made a Swan Knight – a rare honour among the youth of Gondor – he would also be dubbed with an ancient Númenórean sword and allowed to keep the blade afterwards… what more could one wish for?”

“Soon, my son,” his father said in a low voice. “Soon, you shall be counted a grown man and a knight. And then we shall return home, together. Your people have been waiting for you long enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This particular event is described in the 3rd chapter of Isabeau’s “Kin-strife”, although I changed the look of the sword a little.


	16. The Making of the Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The details of the knighting ceremony are based on extensive Internet research and on the book “Life in a Medieval Castle” by Frances and Joseph Gies. Historically, a novice knight was supposed to wear a golden tunic and a purple cloak – I just tried to tone the flashiness down a little.  
> Herumor’s oath is a modified version of Pippin’s oath of fealty to Denethor from “The Return of the King”, of course. I assumed that it was common phrasing for such serene occasions.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 16 – THE MAKING OF THE KNIGHT**

According to ancient custom, Herumor spent the night before his knighting ceremony awake. This was a time of reflection and preparation for a youngling who was about to become a man and a landed lord – or, in his case, the Heir of some rather modest honour.(1)

Usually, it was the father of the knight-to-be who was meant to give the young candidate some last-minute warnings and instructions about how a knight was supposed to live honourably. The long and thorough training of the Swan Knights had freed Lord Orchaldor from his duty, though – he could be certain that his son had been taught everything he would need to know later. Thus they simply sat together in the old lord’s guest chambers and talked. They had a lot to catch up with, after all.

At the first light of dawn, Madenn and Achren had him the bath prepared, as it was the custom for novice knights to go to the ceremony cleansed, in body and soul alike. They sent the serving women away and washed him with their own hands, for they loved him as a brother, and as his closest female kin, ‘Twas their duty – and privilege – to do so.

After bathing, the barber of the Castle was ordered into the guest rooms to shear Herumor’s locks above his shoulder in warrior fashion. This, too, was a time-honoured custom for new knights, and many of them kept the short hair afterwards, as it caused less trouble in a fight. Very few wore their hair long, and even those kept it tied back from their face. One should not give an opponent any advantage.

When the barber left, the young ladies brought forth the ceremonial garment for their cousin. They had woven and sewn it for him with their own hands, having worked on the individual pieces since Yuletide, and the results certainly could be seen.

Firstly, there was a linen undergarment: a fine shirt, the cuffs, hem and high collar of which was beautifully embroidered with the silver dragon of Erellont’s House, and black breeches of the same fine but strong fabric. Above that came a tunic of clot of gold cotton damask, the coat-of-arms of his House embroidered upon its breast in black, silver and white. Then the women brought a cloak of such deep purple that it looked black, unless in direct sunlight, and draped it over his shoulders.

Lastly, they combed his hair, kissed him on the cheek from both sides, and taking him by the hand, led him out of the castle and down to the paved courtyard, where the place of the ceremony had already been prepared.

A low, wide dais had been built in front of the inner gate, and upon it, under a canopy of red woollen curtains, three richly-adorned seats had been placed. The one of the middle for Prince Adrahil, who was to perform the ceremony, the two on his left and right, respectively, for the father of the knight and the Lord of the Castle. They, too, were clad in their most festive garments and were sitting under the canopy like kings in a royal tent on the field. The ladies of the Castle, who were watching from the galleries above, had outdone each other in elegance and beauty, and even the people of the town, as many as they cold be perched upon the walls, wore their best clothes.

The minstrel Priavel of Pelargir and his two attendants had been given a small podest near the dais, where they played merry songs and played their instruments masterfully. Faramir, Morwen and Elphir were allowed to stay close to the musicians, in a comfortable little corner, from where they could see everything, under the watchful eye of the Lady Ivriniel who came down with them, rather than watching the ceremony from one of the galleries. Liahan, however, stood beyond the Prince’s chair.

As not other young man was to be initiated into knighthood together with Herumor, Boromir and Prince Théoden had been chosen to be his attendants. Clad in their finery and in shining armour themselves, they took him from his cousins and led him before the Prince, then stepped back so that they would not be in the line of sight for the onlookers. Adrahil rose from his seat, affectionatedly embracing the young man and kissing him as he would kiss a son.

“Welcome, son of Orchaldor, shining hope of Erellont’s House,” he said, his strong, beautiful voice filling the large courtyard without effort. “You have come before us, in front of all these noble witnesses, to be made a Swan Knight. Are you prepared to swear your oath of fealty to us and to the people of Gondor?”

Rarely did he use the royal pronoun that only he of all the men in Gondor was entitled to use. But making a Swan Knight was an extraordinary event, the rites and words laid down by centuries-old tradition, solemn and elated. This was how it had been done ever since the order of the Swan Knights had been founded.

Herumor lowered himself to his knees, all blood drawn from his face from excitement, his heart hammering in his chest mightily, but he looked up straight into the benevolent eyes of the Old Prince.

“Indeed I have and indeed I am, my Lord,” he replied in a clear, ringing voice that could be heard up to the ladies’ galleries easily.

“So be it,” the old Prince said. “Give me your sword, then, lay your hand upon the hilt and speak the words of the sacred oath every Swan Knight has to swear.”

Herumor drew his sword – the marvellous blade of sea-steel that the Prince had gifted upon him on the previous day – kissed the hilt reverently and laid the priceless weapon along Adrahil’s lap. Then, with his sword-hand resting upon the hilt, he spoke the words of the Oath that all esquires had learned by heart in the very first year of their training.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Prince of Dol Amroth, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Herumor son of Orchaldor of the House of Erellont, Heir of the lordship of Halabor and the adjacent lands.”

“And this do we hear, Adrahil son of Angelimir, Prince of Dol Amroth, and we shall not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance,” Adrahil quoted the time-honoured answer. He did not even need to think about them; he had performed this ceremony countless times during his rule, and every time, it had been a new joy for him to officially acknowledge the growing of a promising youth into full manhood.

Then he rose, took the hilt in both hands and touched with the tip Herumor’s head and both shoulders, saying, “Be thou a knight of Gondor from this day on. May you ever defend her lands with the faithfulness and bravery that have earned you this title, ‘til your Lord sets you free or the King returns.”

Herumor kissed the hand of the old Prince, and a greet cheer rose from the walls and the galleries, greeting the new knight. Armsmaster Ornendil then handed him the famous white belt of the Swan Knights, and Prince Adrahil girdled him with that symbol of bravery and obligation with his own royal hands.

After that, Lord Orchald’s household knights came forth, bringing the fitting attire, so that their Lord could clad his son according to his new status.

Caenneth, Herumor’s great war-horse was led in, covered with a black caparison, which was embroidered with the small images of rampant silver dragons and white gladden flowers. The horse’s saddle, too, was ornamented with silver dragons, and little silver bells seamed its bridle. Unlike some of the Dol Amroth war stallions, Caenneth was a Rohirric breed, which meant a specific bond with his master, and whomever his master assigned to him, Caenneth would obey, although he had been trained to – and well capable of – riding down Wargs in battle, if necessary. Now a small groom could led him without endangering himself, despite the loud shouts and cheers that would make any lesser horse bolt.

Herumor then was armed with a corselet of double-woven mail, which no lance or javelin could pierce; ‘twas said to be Dwarven work and was an old heirloom of his family. His father hung a shield with the silver dragon around his neck and placed a helmet upon his head, adorned with the samesome dragon on top and gladden flowers of silver along its hem. And finally, the beautifully crafted sword-belt was swung around his hips again, with the sea-steel blade in the scabbard.

Thus the new knight was armed, the future flower of knighthood, ready to take his rightful place among his peers. The only remaining act to be done was the _buffet_ , and the right to execute it was saved for the father. Traditionally, ‘twas considered as an aid to memory, so that the young knight would not forget his recently sworn oath – not that any of the Swan Knights needed such reminder, but some things just _had_ to be done the old ways.

Lord Orchaldor, being a great defender of time-honoured custom himself, delivered the open-handed whack with a force that had the new knight stagger on his feet, prepared as he might have been. Then he kissed his only son on the brow, both cheeks and on the lips, as it was custom, and said full love and pride.

“Go, fair son. Be a true knight, and courageous in the face of your enemies. Be thou brave and upright, so that the Valar may love thee – and remember that thou springest from a race that must never be false.”

“So shall I, with the Lady’s blessing(2),” replied Herumor with shining eyes.

 _And truly, who could blame him for being touched_ , thought Boromir, remembering his own knighting ceremony a few months earlier; a more sombre one but not less serene. He is a knight now, a member of Gondor’s noblest order, seconded only by the Tower Guards of Minas Tirith. ‘Tis a great day for him; perchance the greatest one in the life of a young Gondorian lord.

Herumor now leapt on his horse with marvellous agility, despite his armour, and he rode down to the training ground of Lord Forlong’s Castle Guards, right outside the walls, to prove his skills before the eyes of everyone for the first time. Prince Adrahil and the other nobles followed him on foot to watch his performance. The ladies and the Castle folk on the walls needed not to move; they could see everything from their vantage point just fine.

On the training ground, several _quintain_ s – man-shaped figures made of rags and straw, clad in a chain mail and covered with a shield – were set up on wooden posts. Someone brought Herumor a lance; he took his shield in hand, and after a gallop about, attacked the first _quintain_ and knocked it down.

Loud cheers and encouraging calls rose from the crowd again, and he turned his steed around, starting a new attack and finishing it with the same flawless skill. There were about half a dozen such posts, to make the test more difficult and more interesting, but he made no mistake, to the joy and pride of his father and his liege lord.

Naturally, this was just a simple show of skills well-learned, performed against a “foe” that could not defend itself. Yet again, this day, dedicated to the honour of the newly made knight, was only the beginning of the seven-day-tournament that would be spent entirely in war-like games and exercises. ‘Twas allowed for the young knight to show off his hardly won skills a bit, ere he would have to test them on the following days, against older, battle-hardened warriors.

Thus young Lord Herumor – for from that day on he was entitled to be called thusly – rode back to his uncle’s Castle amidst cheers and well-wished from all sides. The Swan Knights who had come as Prince Adrahil’s escort all clasped forearms with him and embraced him, welcoming him in their order. There was a large midday meal in the Great Hall afterwards, where Priavel of Pelargir and his young attendants entertained the guests, and to his amusement, Boromir caught Dahud, the girl singer, seizing up the new knight with a calculating eye.

But Herumor only had ears and eyes for his father and his Lord on that day. And even after midday meal, when the tables were all carried out to turn the Great Hall into a dance floor, he only danced with his cousins, the Lady Aud and little Princess Iris who, according to Rohirric custom, was allowed to take part of the merriment of the adults. This day of all days was more sacred and meaningful for him to even thing of amorous adventures.

Perchance he had his mind on the next days’ challenges already. He had not yet been blooded in battle, and he knew that all the other participants would likely be more experienced in the arts of combat. Watching the young man’s glowing face that still wore the slight bruise from the _buffet_ , Boromir found that Herumor and Liahan showed the same eager anticipation, despite the age difference.

 _Liahan would make an excellent Swan Knight one day_ , he thought. _And Herumor is not the worst role model to choose_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) _Honour_ = also the lands in a nobleman’s possession  
>  (2) He means Elbereth, of course, in Elven fashion. They are Dúnedain, after all.


	17. The Tournament, Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe” as a model while creating the tournament’s combat grounds. _Gesindel_ is an actually existing German word and means “mob”, more or less.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 17 – THE TOURNAMENT, DAY ONE**

Once again, the town of Carvossonn rose early in the next morn, on the first day of the grand tournament. Every soul who had no duties in the Castle or somewhere else in town wanted to see the rare spectacle. Even many traders left their booths closed, as the fair would most likely be fairly abandoned during the combats, and wealthy merchants loved to watch knightly games as much as any nobleman. Besides, they could always leave their apprentices behind to guard the wares.

The place of the tournament had been chosen weeks earlier, and wood-workers had been busying themselves to prepare everything for the grand event for about as long. Between Lord Forlong’s woods and the horse-fair was an extensive meadow of fine green turf, fringed on the side of the fair by great trees. The ground sloped gradually down to a level bottom, as if it had been meant for such martial games, forming a space of a quarter of mile long and about half as broad.

The wood-workers had enclosed that space with strong wooden planks in the form of an elongated square. Only the corners of it were rounded off, to offer more convenience for the spectators. The carpenters had also built strong wooden gates for the combatants, at the northern and southern ends, each wide enough for two horsemen to ride through. Two heralds were standing at each of these portals, together with six trumpets, and a group of twelve men-at-arms who were responsible for maintaining order during the tournament.

There was a natural platform beyond the southern entrance, formed by the elevation of the ground itself. Upon that platform, the pavilions of the knight challengers were pitched, adorned with the colours of their Houses: silver and red for the Lady Aud, green and white for Prince Théodred, black and silver for Lord Peredur, the pure white of the Stewards of Gondor for Boromir and green and silver for Hirluin the Fair, the Heir of Pinnath Gelin, the fifth challenger. The cords of the tents were of the same colour, save Hirluin’s, which were blue – the third colour in his shield. Before each tent was displayed the shield of its occupant, and beside it stood an esquire – either the knight’s own or one borrowed from Lord Forlong’s court.

The central pavilion, as the place of honour, had been assigned to Boromir, of course. Not only due to his rank and position, but also because of his reputation as an excellent combatant (in war and battle anyway). On one side of his tent stood those of Prince Théodred and the Lady Aud, on the other one were the pavilions of Lords Peredur and Hirluin. Although both of those were older than Boromir, they had accepted the Steward’s son as the chief and leader of the challengers, and so did the Rohirrim.

The ten-yards-broad passage that led from the platform to the southern entrance of the combat ground was secured by a palisade on each side and guarded by a strong troop of men-at-arms. Not that anyone would expect the challengers to be waylaid or attacked in any way, but they had valuable armour and weapons with them, and the fair always attracted a great lot of thieves, cut-throats and other _gesindel_ , as the people of Lossarnach called them.

At the northern entrance of the combat ground was a large, enclosed space for such knights who wanted to try their skills against the challengers. As the newly made knight, ‘twas expected from Herumor to be one of those, and traditionally many of the visiting young noblemen would join him. Behind that space, tents were placed, offering accommodation, refreshments and everything they might need, with armourers, farriers and other attendants, ready to give aid whenever necessary.

The two longer sides of the combat ground were framed by temporary galleries, spread with tapestry and carpets and cushions, for the convenience of noblemen and ladies who wanted to attend the tournament. A narrow space between the galleries and the combat ground offered less luxurious seats for the wealthy burghers of the town, so that they would not need to mingle with the common crowd. For those, large banks of turf had been prepared, so that they could overlook the galleries and get a clear view at the combat ground. Those who came too late to secure themselves a place there, could still perch themselves on the branches of the trees that surrounded the meadow.

One gallery, in the middle of the eastern side, opposite the very spot where the actual combat was to take place, had been raised higher than the others, with three canopied seats for the Prince, Lord Forlong and Lord Orchaldor respectively, as the guests of honour. Opposite this gallery, on the western side, was another one, elevated to the same height, designed for the ladies of Forlong’s House and their royal guests, with a canopied chair in the centre for old Lady Achren, who would not miss the tournament for the world. That, or the chance to show off her power as the matron of the clan, forcing her daughter-in-law into the background… or, at the very least, to the side.

To everyone’s surprise, the Lady Almaren did not react to the offence by withdrawing from the entire spectacle, as Forlong’s first wife would have done. On the contrary, she had put on her most splendid gown, a dream of ink black and silver, with an elaborate headdress so high that it reached as far as the old lady’s canopy, and sat on the second-best place with an expression of cold, well-contained fury upon her face. Madenn and Achren sat on their grandmother’s other side, wearing their festive clothes in deep blue and dark red, holding silk handkerchiefs with which they were supposed to wave their knight of choice to encourage them.

Shortly after the second hour of the day(1), the interested townsfolk, regardless of rank or station, began to flood the place, eager to occupy any available space. That led to all sorts of quarrels, of course, as everyone was trying to get a seat with the best possible view at the lists(2), and some simply pushed their way to places they were not entitled to take at all. When the fights became truly loud and one had to fear that it would come to blows, the men-at-arms intervened to settle them, with the generous use of the shafts of their battle-axes. If the quarrels involved wealthier or more important persons, they were dealt with by the two marshals of the field – household knights of Lord Forlong – who rode up and down along the wooden planks, armed with swords and short, strong lances that could finish a wild boar, to keep up order among the over-excited crowd.

Little by little, the galleries became filled with the local noblemen and their ladies and daughters, all wearing their most splendid garments in the colours of their Houses, while the lower and interior spaces became crowded with the respected craftsmen of the town and with local and visiting merchants and their families.

Finally, the Lord of Lossarnach rode in as well, high upon his big-boned, heavy-limbed bay palfrey, dressed splendidly in his best burgundy red, slit-sleeved plated tunic, with tiny golden bells on the left sleeve and a belt of gold chain. The cut of the tunic was the most fashionable, brought to the northern provinces from the elegant circles of Pelargir and was called a _houppelande_ , with a foreign word the origins of which no-one seemed to know. It was edged with squirrel fur, and Lord Forlong wore a fine silk shirt under it as well as dark breeches and supple leather shoes rather than boots. His head was covered with a rich velvet bonnet of the same colour as his tunic, attached to a golden circle, studded with dark red gemstones.

With him rode the Prince of Dol Amroth in his customary royal blue and wearing his crown, to honour the event, Lord Orchaldor in the black and silver of his House, his iron-grey hair down, tumbling over his shoulders and crowned by a masterfully wrapped _capuchon_ against the heat of the sun. Erkenbrand of the Westfold wore green and white, in Rohirric fashion, and Lord Húrin wore dark again, with the emblem of the Wardens – a white tower on black flanked by two golden keys – embroidered upon his breast.

Little Morwen and Princess Idis, who wore the smaller version of ladies’ clothes and looked very lovely in their finest garment, were sent to the ladies’ gallery to sit with Madenn and Achren, and then the lords took their designed places, and the trumpets sounded, signalling the beginning of the tournament.

After that, the heralds – chosen for their loud, ringing voices for this task – rode up to the middle of the lists and proclaimed the rules of the tournament. These were pretty much the same ones as on any other such event, save that _outrance_ was not permitted – which meant, the knights were not allowed to fight with sharp weapons. This was a tournament of skills; Lord Forlong did not want any one of Gondor’s glorious youth to be severely injured or even killed.

The heralds then withdrew from the combat ground, and no-one remained there save the marshals of the field who sat on their great steeds, motionless as if carved in stone, at both entrances to the field. By then, the gathering place at the northern entrance had been filled with knights who were eager to try their skills against the challengers. Quite a few of those knights were from the lesser nobility of Lossarnach and the adjacent provinces, but some of them had come from as far as Belfalas. Tournaments had become a rare event in these days, and every young knight desired to prove his achievements in the art of fighting. Thus they were waiting impatiently for the gate to be finally opened, and the first five of them, chosen by lot previously, to be allowed to enter the lists.

The single champion riding in front was Herumor himself, splendidly armed, on the back of his trusted Caenneth. The other four followed him in pairs. Cheers broke out again, the ladies waved with their silk handkerchiefs and scars (Madenn and Achren before all others, encouraging their young cousin), the men stomped with their feet, and the children shouted as loud as they could.

Even the occupants of the Lord’s gallery leaned forward and watched with narrowing eyes as the five knights rode up to the platform where the pavilions of the challengers stood. There they separated, and each touched the shield of their chosen opponent with the blunt end of their lances.

One of them, a bear-sized local nobleman of the Old Folk, had chosen the Lady Aud, hoping perhaps that he could toss a woman from her saddle easier with the sheer force of his bulk. Baranor, the Captain of Lord Forlong’s household knights, who had refused the honourable offer to be one of the marshals for a chance to participate, had chosen Prince Théodred, while Boromir got challenged by Idanach, one of Lord Orchaldor’s youngest knights. Herumor had decided for Hirluin the Fair, which had been a wise choice, the Heir of Pinnath Gelin being of the same slender stature and only a few years older than him. Peredur, finally, got a hawk-faced knight from Belfalas as his first opponent.

Their choice made, the champions retreated to their end of the lists, where they remained in a straight line. The challengers, led by Boromir, mounted their stallions and slowly rode down from the platform, facing the knights who had touched their respective shields. They all rode cold-blooded _destriers_ , heavy war-horses trained for ambling: a pace that provided the rider with stability, so that he would be able to focus and aim better with the lance. Also, these horses could give a devastating force to the rider’s lance through their weight. All steeds wore _caparison_ s featuring their owner’s heraldic signs, and had their head s protected by a _chanfron_ , a shielding of steel, as even the hit of a blunted lance could have been lethal otherwise.

The sound of clarions and trumpets signalled the beginning of the _joust_ , and the knights started at each other at full gallop, each trying to find an opening by their opponent. Superior skills or strength – or simply good fortune – seemed to be on the challengers’ side, though. The bear-sized local knight was the first to roll on the ground, thrown out of his saddle by the Lady Aud with such force that even his horse staggered. Boromir knocked down young Idanach easily enough, too, and Prince Théodred had no difficulties unhorsing Forlong’s captain, either. Peredur and the knight of Belfalas were more evenly matched; they both stayed in the saddle, but while Peredur’s lance remained whole, despite the clean strike he had delivered, that of his opponent had splintered by the impact and thus he was declared the winner of this particular joust.

Herumor alone maintained the honour of his party, as he parted fairly with Lord Húrin, both splintering their lances without advantage on either side. As each knight was allowed to break five lances during the first day, this meant that Herumor could re-enter the joust and prove his skills against any of the other four challengers.

First, though, the victors retreated to their tents among the joyous sounds of the trumpets and the acclamations of the heralds, allowing their defeated opponents to leave the combat ground with the help of their esquires. Later they would send those esquires to the victors, to negotiate about the ransom of their arms and horses, which, according to the rules of the tournament, now belonged to the victors.

Herumor, basking in the apparent pride of his father and his cousins, also retreated to the northern entrance. In his excitement, he completely failed to notice the minstrel’s pretty girl singer in the lower ranks, who had encouraged and cheered him enthusiastically.

After a short break for the challengers to catch their breath, a second party of champions took the field. Herumor was among them again, and so was Borondir, the captain of his father’s household knights, and further three young men from the local nobility.

Those three young men were swiftly overthrown by Boromir, Théodred and the Lady Aud, while Borondir and Lord Hirluin both lost their seat at the same time, and an impasse was declared between the two of them, meaning that they could return for the third round. This time, Herumor had touched the shield of Peredur, his father’s chief vassal, and said to him ere the joust would begin.

“Lord Peredur, I hope you do respect me enough to treat me as you would any other opponent.”

“Worry not, my Lord,” Peredur’s teeth were very white in his sunburnt face; as the estate steward of his overlord, he spent a great deal of his time outdoors. “I shall do my best to give you as hard a time as you have ever had.”

And indeed, both of them charged bravely, and who knows what the outcome would have been, for Peredur was a Swan Knight, too, older and blooded in battle, had his hose not missed a step, falling out of the proper rhythm of the charge. That small misstep was enough for Peredur to fail in the _attaint_ , that is, hitting Herumor’s helmet or shield with enough force so that his lance would break; and thus Herumor, although he still swayed in the saddle from the force of the impact, was declared the winner of the joust.

There was another break before the third entry, in which now only four of the original challengers remained in the game. Herumor now had the thankless task to choose between Boromir, Théodred and the Lady Aud, as he had already messed his lance with Lord Hirluin. He was a little out of breath already, and his side, where Peredur’s lance had hit him, was bruised and sore.

“What would you do in my stead?” he asked Borondir, who was an experienced knight in his mid-thirties and as strong as an ox.

“You have no chance against Lord Boromir,” said the captain of the household knights. “He is every bit as fast and as skilled as you are, but he is much stronger, and his horse is heavier than Caenneth. The Lady Aud is an unknown factor – I cannot guess what she is truly capable of, as I have never seen her in a serious fight. I say choose the Prince of Rohan.”

“He will ride me into the dirt by the first charge!” protested Herumor.

“Mayhap he will, if you try to gain victory by sheer force,” Borondir agreed. “You must try to catch him off-balance. The Rohirrim are so confident about their riding skills – and rightly so – that he would not even expect such an attack. If you manage to strike him in the right angle, his own weight could be his downfall.”

Herumor nodded thoughtfully. “’Tis sound advice, Captain, and I shall try to do so as you have told me. What about you, though?”

“I shall try my luck against the Lady Aud,” replied Borondir. “I am better with the lance than her; she has been trained to fight, not to joust. And I am also heavier. Even if I lose, I can tire her out a bit for you, in case you come in the fourth entry.”

That, too, sounded sensible enough, and thus Herumor, indeed, dared to touch the green shield with the running white horse next. An excited murmur rose from the rows of the spectators, as they all had seen Théodred easy victories before, and to be honest, few would give Herumor half a chance. On the ladies’ gallery, Madenn was torn between her cousin and her lover, unable to decide whom she wished the victory more. Achren, on the other hand, as well as little Morwen, were firing on Herumor enthusiastically, while Princess Idis encouraged her brother with Rohirric battle cries.

Compared with the huge Prince of Rohan, Herumor seemed child-like, almost fragile. And even Caenneth, big, well-trained war-horse as he was, got dwarfed by Théodred’s _meara_. Both horses being of Rohirric stock, the encounter between steeds promised to be just as interesting as the one between their riders.

At the sound of the trumpets, they galloped away with all their might, Herumor also fired by slightly vindictive feelings on behalf of his fair cousin. As Captain Borondir had advised, he was looking out for the deciding point of advantage. Taking a strike from Théodred’s lance in the centre of his shield with such force that he reeled in the saddle, he changed his aim in the last moment to Théodred’s helmet, hitting the visor with all his strength. The shock of the impact was so great that the girths of Théodred’s saddle broke from it, sending saddle, horse and prince rolling on the ground in a great cloud of dust.

For a moment, the battle ground became eerily quiet. ‘Twas an outcome no-one would have thought possible. Then the spectators jumped to their feet like one man and celebrated their Lord’s young nephew, who had done the sheer unbelievable deed, with loud cheers and joyous cries, laughing and dancing on their places, for they considered Herumor as one of their own.

Meanwhile, almost unnoticed by the crowd, Lady Aud and Captain Borondir broke their lances fairly, reaching an impasse again, which bought them the entry in the fourth round, while Boromir achieved an easy victory against one of the visiting knights from Lebennin.

Now the joust had become truly interesting, as all possibilities were still open, even though Théodred had to admit defeat and leave the lists. That could mean enormous gain for Herumor, as the _mearas_ were worth their won weight in gold, which, in case of Théodred’s huge stallion, was no small amount. No-one would expect him to hand over his mount to his opponent, of course, as _mearas_ simply did not allow anyone but the members of the royal family to ride them, but Herumor could hope to make an excellent bargain out of his victory. Riding along the western side of the lists, he glanced up to Madenn apologetically, but his cousin smiled down at him with love and pride. It seemed that he was forgiven for the unexpected victory.

The choices for the fourth entry were not numerous, however. He could choose the Lady Aud, who seemed fairly unbattered by her previous jousts – or Boromir, who would wipe the combat ground with him in mere moments. Captain Borondir had already broken lances with the Lady, thus his only choice was Boromir. Even for an older, more experienced warrior, _that_ was not a promising choice.

And thus the first day of the tournament came to its semi-final round, with Herumor facing the Lady Aud and Captain Borondir determined to accept his inevitable fate with as much dignity as possible.

Once again, the trumpets gave the signal, and the champions thundered down to the centre of the lists with lightning speed. The lances of Herumor and the Lady Aud burst into splinters up to the very grasp, and for a moment, it seemed as if thy would both fall, as the impact made their horses recoil backwards, so that they had to recover them with the help of bridle and spurs. Yet it soon became evident that only Herumor had succeeded. The steed of the Lady Aud had apparently suffered some minor injury, for it clearly favoured its right hind leg.

Herumor rode back to the northern entrance and offered the Lady Aud, by a herald, the chance of a second encounter with a fresh horse. This the Lady declined, gracefully declaring herself vanquished, and thus Herumor’s way to the all-deciding fifth entry was free. His final opponent – how could it have happened differently – would be Boromir himself, who had just hurled poor Captain Borondir to the ground with such force that the good man had to be carried off the lists, senseless and with a bloody nose.

By then, the excitement of the spectators knew no limits, even though no-one truly expected Herumor to repeat the marvellous deed he had done with Théodred against the Steward’s mighty and valiant son as well. Even less so as he had several encounters with much stronger opponents behind him and was tried and sore already. Still, the chance to test his skills against _Boromir_ , of all people, excited him to no end, and he was determined to make Boromir’s unquestionable victory as dearly bought as he could.

The combat ground was very silent as they rode up against each other to decide the final outcome of the joust. This time Herumor aimed at the centre of Boromir’s shield, knowing that he would have no more than this single strike, and he gave Caenneth the spurs harder than ever before, urging the horse to throw its full weight into that one strike. He hit his target fair and true, forcibly enough to rattle his own teeth, but even so, Boromir sustained his high reputation and stayed in the saddle… barely. At the same time, however, Boromir hit Herumor just as forcibly on his helmet – with enough strength to knock him off the saddle, and though Herumor managed to grasp Caenneth’s bridle ere hitting the ground, he was – rightfully – declared vanquished.

So the first day of the summer tournament in Carvossonn ended, and Lord Forlong and the marshals announced that day’s honours to the Steward’s son, who had fought valiantly and with great skill. The townsfolk, however, and all the attendants of the Summer fair, celebrated the youngest of the knights, who had done so well on his first tournament, achieving the second-best place against such great opponents. And all the knights who had attended, including the Lady Aud, had a merry feast that night, with music and dance and an abundance of fine ale and good wine, and they were content. For however fortune might had dealt with them on this first day, no-one had to feel less brave or less honourable than the rest of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In Gondor, hours were counted in the same manner as in medieval Europe. Accordingly, the second hour was at 8 p.m.  
> (2) _Lists_ was the medieval name for the combat grounds, where the actual fighting took place.


	18. The Tournament, Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tent pegging is a game that has been very popular since ancient times up to this day. What you will see here is, of course, the Middle-earth version.  
> As for the winner getting horse and armour of his opponent (or a suitable ransom for it) is an historic fact. Some knights got very rich during such tournaments, while others lost everything they had. It never stopped anyone to participate, though.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 18 – THE TOURNAMENT, DAY TWO**

Herumor woke up feeling as if he had been run over by a _mûmak_ – and a particularly big and vicious one, at that. He also had a hangover of the size of said _mûmak_ , which was understandable, considering that he never used to drink heavily, and that the ale of the Rohirrim was a tricky beverage indeed. As a result, he felt as if enraged Dwarf-smiths would be pounding his head from the inside with _very_ heavy hammers, and he felt vaguely nauseous. His very bones ached, every single one of them… but that was to be expected. After all, he had taken a few rather forceful strikes on the previous day, beside the one delivered by Boromir that had knocked him off his saddle.

Needless to say, the hangover did _not_ make things easier.

Sitting up in bed was a deed of heroic proportions, more so as his head felt somehow… swollen, and as if it would be swimming in a cloud of indefinite vapours. Somehow he still managed to maneuver himself into a more or less upright position, and was about to carefully move his feet to the floor, when there was an unbearably loud knock on his door, and without waiting for an answer, Madenn hurried in, followed by several maids who brought the wooden bathtub, the bathing screen, towels and jugs of hot water.

“Oh, good, you are up already,” she said cheerfully… _way_ too cheerfully for Herumor’s rotten mood. “You shall need a bath, I deem… you must be sore.”

“I am dead,” groaned Herumor pathetically. “I have got a thick head, my stomach is upset, and even my bruises have bruises. I wonder why I have ever thought that being a knight would be such an honourable and glorious thing?”

“You are asking the wrong person,” Madenn laughed. “I am just a woman, remember? I am here to heal you when you break each other’s head (or drink each other under the table), not to give you any excuses for doing so. Now, drink this and let me see those bruises of you while your bath cools a little.”

 _This_ was Madenn’s hangover cure: an absolutely vile brew, which, nonetheless, could cure the worst hangover in very little time. Herumor pinched his nostrils together and downed the indefinable liquid quickly, ere he could have realized its taste, yet he still shuddered for moments afterwards, while Madenn was watching him without compassion.

“That will teach you to get drunk with the Rohirrim,” she said. “You know they can drink ale like the fish drink water and it never harms them. _You_ , on the other hand, have inherited the sensitive stomach of Aunt Humleth… what were you _thinking_?”

“Not much, at that moment,” admitted Herumor, feeling somewhat better already.

Madenn shook her head in tolerant amusement and released the maids for the time being. Then, ignoring Herumor’s feeble attempts of modesty, pulled the nightshirt over his head – declaring that he did not have aught under it that she had not seen already – and gave his bruised upper body a thorough examination. She even applied pressure with the flat of her hand on one spot or another, which made Herumor wince, but while he hurt everyone, the pain was not too bad.

“You look… _colourful_ ,” she judged, still not displaying any abundance of compassion. “Do you have pain when breathing?” Herumor shook his head; and regretted it at the very moment, despite the hangover cure. “Good. Just as I thought: no broken ribs. I shall add lavender oil to your bath and treat your bruises with a poultice of ox-eye leaves and elm-leaves afterwards. Master Mánion, the Prince’s healer has taught me how to prepare it.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Getting into the bath-tub was a painful exercise, but the warm water, the lavender oil – and afterwards Madenn’s poultice – worked wonders indeed. About an hour later, Herumor was feeling more like himself again, clad in clean clothes and actually capable of moving around without a pitiful groan accentuating each of his steps.

“Uncle is having first meal with Prince Adrahil,” Madenn told him. “He expects you to join them as soon as you are… passable. I would say you are passable enough.”

First meal was a casual affair in the Castle of Carvossonn, served between the first and the third hour of the day(1), at everyone’s convenience. Also, for the guests it was served in a parlour adjacent to the kitchens, rather than in the Great Hall, so that they could come and go as they pleased. The Lord and his family usually broke their fast in their private quarters, so there was no sign of the older generation. However, both Madenn and Achren joined their guests. Madenn sat down unceremoniously to the table of her beloved uncle, while Achren had been invited to eat with the steward’s family, namely Lord Húrin, little Morwen and both of Denethor’s sons.

Boromir seemed none the worse after the previous day’s joust, much to Herumor’s annoyance. But again, the Steward’s son had probably seen worse. A _lot_ worse. He only listened to the conversation with half an ear, attacking his food with the devotion of every soldier who had to learn the importance of keeping one’s strength the hard way.

Almost at the same time as Herumor, Prince Adrahil, too, arrived to first meal, flanked by Elphir and Liahan, both of whom seemed very excited about something. Mánion, the young healer, followed them from some distance, and took his place among the pages and esquires, after greeting Madenn with a slight nod. The two of them had become something akin to friends during the Prince’s stay, mostly due to their shared work, to mutual advantage.

“But Grandfather,” exclaimed Elphir, obviously continuing an argument that must have begun some time earlier, “I am nine years old! I can ride as well as Liahan!”

“On your own pony, on the training grounds of Dol Amroth, mayhap you can,” replied the Prince. “You are not safe enough on the back of a big horse yet, though. Nay, Elphir, stop begging. I have spoken the last word in this, and I shall _not_ change my mind. Liahan may participate if that is his wish – he has ridden real horses for two years by now – but you may not. And do not even think of running to your aunt Ivriniel and making a spectacle; it would not help.”

“Participate?” Faramir turned around, interested. “Participate in what?”

“The knights who jousted so splendidly yesterday are given two days of rest to heal and recover,” explained the Prince. “So, today and tomorrow there will be a tent pegging competition for pages and young esquires, on the same combat grounds. There will be several games like ring jousting, apple sticking, _quintain_ tilting and mounted archery, depending on the age or previous training of the participants. Now, Liahan here has already had some weapons training with Master Andrahar, and he is a very good rider for his age. Thus I have allowed him to try his skills at the apple sticking, which is, I am told, for the youngest boys. Unfortunately, my grandson cannot understand that, too young and untrained at he is, he would not stand a chance.” He glared at his eldest grandson with mock annoyance. “I wonder whom he might have learned that attitude from.”

Boromir shrugged and swallowed before answering.

“I certainly have _not_ encouraged him; ‘tis the first time I hear about the whole thing. I do believe, however, that Faramir would do well enough in the mounted archery.”

“I think not,” said Faramir modestly. “I am not used to shooting from horseback.”

“Then let yourself inscribe to the ring shooting,” suggested Achren. “That is done from the standing position… although I heard the esquires from Pinnath Gelin will be there, so the competition might be strong.”

“They are very good,” Faramir agreed, “but I think I might stand a chance against them.”

“I know you will,” said Boromir, then he looked at Liahan. “You, however, will need a very fast horse. The local esquires are skilled; you need to outdo them with speed.”

“Take Cealaigh,” offered Herumor. “He knows you well; you have often taken care of him in Dol Amroth… and he is light and fast.”

“But also fiery and stubborn,” the Prince said in concern. “Will Liahan able to remain on his back?”

“Cealaigh would never throw off a rider I have placed onto his back,” replied Herumor, smiling at the boy. “My offer stands. On Cealaigh, you have a real chance.”

“I thankfully accept,” said Liahan with the characteristic graveness of young children who had learned to take responsibility at a very tender age, and he bowed respectfully.

“Speaking of which,” Lord Orchaldor turned to Boromir, “I shall send my esquire to you later in the morning, to negotiate the redemption of my son’s armour and horse, ere he ends up without any steed at all.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” said Boromir. “Such is the law of arms; yet I would loathe depriving a new knight of his hereditary armour and his only war-horse. What would be your offer?”

“Verily,” said Lord Orchaldor, “the armour worn by my son in last day’s passage of arms is an old heirloom of or House and therefore priceless for us. However, I am told by the armourers of Lord Forlong that the armour is worth forty gold pieces in today’s currency, and the horse is worth another twelve. That is the ransom I can offer you… if you are willing to wait ‘til my son receives the ransom from his own defeated opponents, that is,” he added with a certain bitterness. “An ancient and honourable House we might be, but a wealthy one we are not. Not any longer.”

“Uncle, I am certain that Father would help you out if needs must be,” said Madenn quietly.

“There is no need for that,” Herumor interrupted firmly. “I can offer, as the first rate of my payment, a precious rug worth at least thirty gold pieces, made by the Haradric rug-maker of our town. The _Merchants’ Guild_ gave it in order for my return, and they even sent it to Minas Tirith for me, with a shipment of wine meant for Pelargir. I have no doubt that we shall be able to come up with the rest ere we leave, if Lord Boromir is willing to wait.”

Boromir bit his lower lip. Paying the ransom in gold would mean quite the cut for Lord Orchaldor’s household, but he could not refuse entirely. That would be against the law of arms, and it would have humiliated the old lord deeply.

“I shall accept the rug,” he said, after a moment of consideration. “Living in a tent among the ruins of Osgiliath is fairly unpleasant, so I shall put your ransom to good use, in Haradric fashion.”

“Master Andrahar would be astonished,” Herumor grinned. “He never tires saying how our people have no understanding what a decent tent has to look like.”

Boromir grinned back at him. “I remember. Rendering Andrahar speechless is worth the remaining coin for me. And you have just offered Liahan your own horse, risking that it might get injured; I deem you ought to be given some compensation for the possible risks. Let us call this business finished here.”

Herumor gave in gracefully, hiding his relief and gratitude well enough. Fifty-two gold pieces were a small fortune for someone like his father, whose modest wealth was in woods and lands, rather than in gold or gemstones that one could turn into coin easily. Boromir clasped forearms with them, and they both dug into their food again. Madenn’s hangover cure had worked wonders indeed, and Herumor realized that he was very hungry, all of a sudden.

Prince Adrahil, quiet spectator of the discussion, gave his eldest grandson a glance full of fondness and pride. The skill and elegance with which Boromir avoided to embarrass the proud Lord of Halabor, while still turning things so that Herumor would get away at the smallest possible price, was a stunning achievement indeed. _This young man_ , thought the Prince, _will become a great and well-loved ruler of Gondor one day_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Later in the morning, Herumor was sought out by the esquires of Lord Peredur, the Lady Aud and Prince Théodred, to negotiate the ransom for their masters’ arms and horses. He accepted the thirty gold pieces from Lord Peredur with an easy conscience, as he had already asked his father to use it for the fortification of _Emerië Manor_ (2), where the same Lord’s duty was to train Lord Orchaldor’s men-at-arms – a sad necessity in these dark days.

As the _meara_ s would not bear any other masters than the members of Rohan’s royal clan, the Rohirrim offered two breeding mares and a young stallion instead, for each their steeds, which was a generous offer, for thus Lord Orchaldor would be able to breed his own stock for his household knights. Hrotgar, his horse-master, hailed from Rohan himself; he would know how to handle the proud horses of the Mark. Needless to say that Herumor accepted the offer gladly, together with the additional twenty gold pieces from each of his royal (or almost-royal) opponents.

“You have done well, son,” commented Lord Orchaldor. “For a new knight to defeat three such opponents was no small feat. ‘Tis a shame about the beautiful rug, though. Lord Boromir might have been willing to wait for his ransom.”

“Nay, Father,” said Herumor earnestly. “Even with Lord Peredur’s ransom, I could not have paid off my debt – and _his_ coin is sorely needed to strengthen the defences at _Emerië Manor_ ; you know that as well as I do. And as for these,” he lifted the small, soft purse with the Rohirric coins, “they will be well-used to establish more Wardens in our town, as you have wished for years.”

“You should keep some for yourself,” said his father with a small smile. “'Twas your bones that had been put to risk to earn them, after all. Young men like you have needs.”

“None that I would need to pay with gold for,” Herumor smiled back at him. “I always knew that the abundance I enjoyed in Dol Amroth was just for that time. I am not afraid of returning to our simpler life – ‘tis good enough for me, as it has been good enough for you, all your life. Besides, ‘tis not so that we would suffer need of anything.” He stood and stretched carefully, mindful of his bruised ribs. “I better go down to the stables and make sure Cealaigh allows Liahan to ride him.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The tent pegging games of the pages and esquires took place a good hour after midday meal, for the attendants had needed time to prepare the lists. But now the spectators were gathering again, to watch Gondor’s future prove their skills. Lord Forlong came in person to oversee the games, and with him came Prince Adrahil and Lord Orchaldor and Erkenbrand of the Westfold, and all the knights who had taken part in the previous day’s jousting, for some of their own esquires had been inscribed. The ladies had come, too, with the exception of Princess Idis, who had asked – and been given – permission to try her hand in the ring jousting. She had no intention to become a shieldmaiden, but all noble daughters of the Mark were trained in arms to a certain extent, and she was determined to show her skills.

The first game was the apple-sticking, though, for this was the one where the youngest boys were allowed to participate. About thirty of them had gathered at the northern entrance of the combat field, of various ages between ten and fourteen. The oldest was a tall, comely lad, lissome and long-limbed, with a full head of dark curls, clearly a son of the local nobility, while the youngest was obviously Liahan, who looked very small and fragile, riding Herumor’s courser, Cealaigh.

The apple-sticking was a game with several targets, some of them sitting on a platform, some of them suspended from a cord or simply lying on the ground. In order to win the game, a boy needed to spear up as much as seven apples with his sword and present them to the heralds. The most difficult task provided the apples hanging from a cord; the boys needed to slash the cord first and pick up the fallen apple from the ground second, all that without breaking their rhythm, for time and speed were of utmost importance here.

The trumpets sounded, signalling the beginning of the game, and the boys broke the group, spreading all over the field. There was no prescribed route – they simply galloped away, trying to pick up as many targets as they could, in the shortest possible time.

Liahan gained quite the advantage right away. Not only had he a particularly fast and light-footed horse to his disposal, thanks to Herumor’s generosity, he was also very light himself, and that came handy in this game, for he was barely a burden for Cealaigh, a horse used to fully grown riders. Unlike the other boys, who went for the easiest targets, the ones sitting on platforms, trying to drive each other away, Liahan, practically hanging on one side of Cealaigh, holding himself with one hand on the bridle and one foot in the stirrup, began with picking up the apples lying on the ground. He had five speared on his sword already when the others realized what he was doing and speeded after him.

The oldest lad – who happened to be the son of Lord Benniget, one of the knights defeated by Boromir on the previous day – galloped in front. He, too, had four apples already, _and_ a very fast horse. ‘Twas apparent to anyone that the game would be decided between him and Liahan. Benead clearly had the skills and years’ worth of weapons training over Liahan, while Liahan had the advantage of being light and limber and used to compete with older, stronger boys.

All the easier targets had been taken, and now the boys were going for the most difficult ones. Liahan, smartly realizing that he would not be able to drive Benead away by sheer strength, set on speed instead, galloping for the targets further away. He still had one apple over the other boy, trying to pick up the remaining two faster than his opponent could have gathered three.

His calculation seemed to work, but the game was still open. Benead had considerable skills, too, _and_ he was strong enough to drive the other boys away from his chosen target. Now both he and Liahan had six apples on their swords and were racing for the last target in view. It hung fairly high from a wooden post, but it was in clear line of sight. Everything depended on speed now – and speed preferred the smaller, lighter champion.

Liahan reached the target first. He had to stand up in the stirrups to slash the cord, and the apples on his sword made it not easier to keep his balance, either. Still, there could be but little doubt that he would pick up his fallen target in time.

His opponent saw it, too – he was hot on Liahan’s heels, but not close enough to get there first. His handsome face darkened with anger, and at the very moment when Liahan slashed the cord, he gave his steed the spurs viciously, and rammed Cealaigh from behind.

Cealaigh reared and bolted, and the spectators sprang to their feet in terror, expecting to see the younger boy under the thundering hooves, his small body broken and bloodied. To their open-mouthed astonishment, however, Liahan had somehow managed to remain on his horse, if not exactly _in_ the saddle. As he had done before voluntarily, he acted now out of need, hanging on Cealaigh’s side, holding on the reins with one hand only, and in the stirrup with just one foot. With the other hand, he speared the seventh apple on his sword, hanging almost upside down, while Cealaigh galloped around the field, coming down from his fright little by little.

When the horse’s gait became even again, Liahan swung back into the saddle, raising his sword with all seven apples speared on it, and he grinned in delight, still too young to fully comprehend how close to death he had just been. A murmur rose from the rows of the spectators, astonished by the excellent horsemanship of such a young boy, but also in anger towards Benead son of Benniget who had very nearly caused his death, out of jealousy.

“That was a dishonourable deed, my son,” Lord Benniget of Gwenter lectured his firstborn sternly. “You have brought shame upon my good name and upon our House. We shall discuss your punishment in private. As for you, young sir,” he turned to Liahan, “pray allow me to offer you this dagger as reparation. May you wield it in the service of Gondor victoriously when you grow into your full strength.”

Liahan blushed a little but accepted the finely-made dagger graciously, as it was proper for a future Swan Knight. He presented his sword with the seven apples to the heralds (ere feeding the apples to Cealaigh as a sign of his gratitude), and thus he was declared the winner of the first game and given his prize right away. ‘Twas three fine pieces of cloth, of which his mother would be able to make three surcoats for him, once back in Dol Amroth.

Then he returned to the Lord’s gallery, to sit with the other children in the lower row, after having endured a quick examination by Master Mánion. The healer wanted to see if he was still hale, presumably by the Prince’s command. Liahan then made himself comfortable to watch the rest of the games, clutching his winnings and his new dagger to his chest.

Now came the ring jousting for the esquires, a game in which the galloping riders had to pass the point of their spear through a number of suspended rings of various sizes, most of them fairly small and some of them barely visible on the ground. ‘Twas a game that originated in Ithilien, a province often threatened by the Haradrim, and served as a training tool for the spear-fighters who had to face the huge _mûmak_ s carrying the enemy’s war-towers. As these enormous beasts had hides tougher than a knight’s chain mail, one either had to shoot them in the eye with a well-aimed arrow or to stab the highly sensitive flesh behind their toenails, which would cause the _mûmak_ to rear, unseat its _mahout_ , and possibly run amok, breaking ranks and trampling down the enemy’s own foot soldiers.

Whatever the true origins of the game might have been, ring jousting had been very popular among the esquires for as long as the Men of Gondor could remember. Therefore as good as every single esquire of the Castle as well as the ones who had come with the visiting knights was eager to try their skills on the different targets.

Princess Idis looked as frighteningly beautiful as her brother or the Lady Aud, in her gilded chain mail that covered her knees. She had a round, green shield with the image of a running white horse upon it, and her spear was barely shorter and lighter than the ones carried by the grown Riders of Théodred’s _éored_. She wore a helmet akin to those of the grown warriors, but her golden hair flattered after her, unbraided, like a sunlit cloud.

“She is very beautiful,” breathed Faramir, clearly smitten, but Liahan stole a glance at little Morwen and said with a blush.

“Your cousin is prettier.”

Faramir looked from one girl to the other and shrugged. He had never considered Morwen aught else but a sometimes annoying little cousin, but now he had to admit that she was pretty indeed. Still, he found the golden beauty of Princess Idis far more enchanting.

The beginning of the game was signalled by clarions and trumpets, and the young riders galloped away. Unlike by the apple sticking, here they had to follow a certain path that led from one target to another, tossing the heads of their spears through the hanging or laying rings in a certain order. Once a player missed a target, he had to leave the lists… ‘twas a game of both speed _and_ skills. Reaching the target first helped, but was not enough.

Many an esquire filled his targets, setting for speed alone, others were more skilled but not fast enough. Soon enough it seemed clear to everyone that the game would be decided between Duartane, the ranking esquire of Lord Orchaldor’s, Vorondil, one of the future Swan Knights, and Princess Idis. They were fairly even, with the Princess having the best horse (naturally), Vorondil having the best skills (again, expectable from someone with four years’ worth of Swan Knight training under his belt), and Duartane being the one who knew the combat ground best, having participated here similar games before.

Finally, the skills won out. Vorondil managed to get all the targets, while Duartane ended up on the second place with two misses and the Princess on the third place with four misses.

“It matters not,” declared Duartane, after having accepted the congratulations contentedly. “I shall do better at the _quintain_ tilting. ‘Twas a good game. ‘Tis not easy to best someone with Swan Knight training… though not impossible, I would say.”

“We shall see,” grinned Vorondil. “I am eager to try my skills against yours once more, good sir.”

They clasped forearms in warrior fashion, laughed, and then Vorondil went to gather his prize: a finely made spear in Lossarnach style, its head thrice-forged, strong enough to finish a wild boar. He was very content with it, as everyone knew that while the finest swords and armours were made in Lamedon and Minas Tirith itself, Lossarnach was the home of the best hunting and fighting spears and battle-axes.

After a short rest, while the attendants placed the _quintain_ s upon their posts, nearly the same group of esquires gathered to take part in the last game of the day. _Quintain_ tilting was the highest form of jousting games: the mounted esquires had to strike the shield hanging from the _quintain_ ’s “neck” straight and fair in the centre, otherwise it would spin around, hitting the unfortunate lad with the weight fastened on a staff on the other side of the _quintain_ with enough force to knock him off the saddle. This was the closest thing to the actual jousting practiced by grown knights allowed for younglings.

Princess Idis did not take part in this final game. She had proved her skills with the spear already and that was enough for her. Besides, she wanted to save her strength for the horse racing that was to take place near the end of the tournament and was closest to the heart of the Rohirrim than all the other games.

Thus the _quintain_ tilting became a personal competition between Vorondil and Duartane once again, with only two or three other esquires from Lossarnach and Rohan to come near them. This time, though, familiarity with the ground proved to be an advantage, as the _quintain_ s raised by Lord Forlong’s men packed quite a punch if not hit squarely in the centre of the shield; a much stronger one than similar devices used in other lists of Gondor.

As a result, while both Duartane and Vorondil finished the route with only one imperfect strike, Vorondil was caught unaware by the unusually hard impact and thrown off his saddle at the very end of the field. Duartane, who had tried his hand on Lossarnach-style _quintain_ s before, had been prepared for the punch and managed to remain in the saddle, being thus declared the winner of that day’s last game. He was prized a sword and excellent leather gauntlets, which seemed to make him very happy.

All in all, the warriors of Halabor had featured rather splendidly so far, announced Lord Orchaldor after the evening meal, and he was proud of them. All of them, from the youngest esquire to his own son. Captain Borondir had also recovered from the blow dealt to him by Boromir and (after the healers had righted his broken nose) was fairly content with himself. For though he had lost the joust against Boromir, like everyone else, he also turned out even handed against Lord Hirluin and the Lady Aud, which was no small feat, either, and could still hope to win back his ransom in the _mêlée_.

As the following day was another one of rest for the knights, dedicated to ring shooting and mounted archery for pages and esquires, the men of Halabor stayed up late in the night once again, telling tales of old battles and sharing songs. The minstrel Priavel had been called to the Great Hall to entertain the Lord and the Prince and other dignities, but the girl singer Dahud begged for leave, pretending to be fatigued, and her master released her. Instead of going back to her small chamber, though, she climbed up the wines like a sleek cat, onto the gallery of Lord Orchaldor’s chambers, and was watching the men inside through the open window.

Nay, not all the men. Only one of them: the young knight with those changeable eyes under the thick brows. The knight who was barely more than a boy still, and yet he had managed to be victorious against older and stronger opponents.

She was a singer, grown up on ballads. ‘Twas easy for her to lose her heart to such a champion. Now if she could only make her champion notice her!

Unbeknownst of his conquest, Herumor was enjoying the long-missed company of his father and their household, his mind already on the challenges that lay before him. He could not suspect that a huntress, armed with weapons as yet unfamiliar for him, had her eyes on him already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) between 7p.m. and 9 p.m., respectively  
> (2) The home of Lord Peredur, and at the same the training ground for those men-at-arms he was duty-bound to send to Gondor’s army in the times of war. Established in “The Last Yule of Halabor”.


	19. The Tournament, Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I wanted to have the younglings’ competitions done in one day. But that would have resulted in an ungodly long chapter, so I delegated… *g*  
> Derufin and his father, Duinhir, the Lord of Morthond Vale, are mentioned in RotK. Derufin and his brother Duilin fell in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, trampled down when leading their archers against the _mûmak_ s.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 19 – THE TOURNAMENT, DAY THREE**

Faramir woke up in the next morn with excitement fluttering in his stomach like butterflies. ‘Twas not so that he would not trust his abilities; he knew he was an excellent archer – for his age anyway – but the esquires of Pinnath Gelin were every bit as good… and they were older and more experienced.

“Just keep your calm and focus on your target,” Prince Adrahil had said on the previous night. “Never mind your opponents; they would only distract you. Tis up to you and your bow, naught else.”

As they were using the same targets as the ring jousters before, the ring-shooting competition was set shortly after first meal. Faramir could barely restrain himself; he ran down to the lists at the second hour already to get inscribed in time, although the games were not to start before the fourth. As he tried to get a closer look at the targets, someone stopped him. ‘Twas a very young man, stout and well set, clad in green and brown in the fashion of the woodland folk, dark-haired and grey-eyed. He had at least a dozen arrows stuck in his belt, with a baldric and badge of silver, and a longbow of six feet length in his hand.

“I am sorry, young sir,” he said in a friendly but firm voice, “but those who are taking part of the game are not allowed to get any closer.

Faramir gave a man a curious look. The stranger was clearly of Dúnadan stock, younger than Boromir, even, his face brown like a nut from the constant exposure to wind and weather. Yet there was something in his firm tone, in his spare movements that revealed him a warrior rather than a simple huntsman.

“Forgive me, good sir,” replied Faramir, “I was not aware of this rule. May I know your name and where you are from?”

“My name is Anborn,” said the young man, “Anborn son of Arthod, from the Morthond Vale. My father is a vassal of Lord Duinhir there. I have come to participate when the shooting at the Falcon takes place, on the last day of the Summer Fair.”

“But I was told that only those who live in town are allowed to participate,” said Faramir, a little enviously. The young man nodded.

“’Tis true,” he agreed. “But the people of my mother live in this town, and thus I am allowed to join the King’s camp, due to my kinship with a local family.”

“Your clothes confuse me, though,” said Faramir, “for you seem to me as one who has been a warrior for some time, and yet I have never seen any of our soldiers clad this way.”

“You have never met any of the Ithilien Rangers before, I deem,” smiled Anborn. “We are but a small garrison and not widely known even in Minas Tirith, as we seldom stay within stone walls. You will learn more about us in time, I assume.”

Faramir gave him a suspicious look. “You know who I am?”

“I know who your brother is,” Anborn shrugged, “and you have a similar enough look for me to know that you must be the Steward’s younger son. As a Ranger and a scout you learn to look for small signs.”

“How long have you been with the Rangers?” asked Faramir, for the man seemed still awfully young.

“Three years it will be in the autumn,” replied Anborn. “I was sent there at the age of fourteen, as a messenger boy.” Seeing Faramir’s surprise he shrugged again. “My father may be a landed vassal, but I have two older brothers and a sister. What other choice did I have?”

“Have you… have you ever regretted it?” asked Faramir hesitantly.

Anborn shook his head, smiling. “Nay, I have not. The Rangers have become something akin a family to me, and were it not for my sister’s wedding, I would be celebrating summer equinox with them. Still, I am glad to be here now, for ‘tis a feast I have not seen for many years, and I always enjoy being with my mother’s people. You should go now, though, ere the heralds catch you sneaking around the targets. That could get you expelled of the competition, and I believe not you would want _that_.”

Faramir thanked the Ranger and returned to his brother’s tent, at the southern entrance, as he had served as Boromir’s esquire during the tournament. That was slightly bending the rules, of course, as he had yet to begin his esquire training officially, but the heralds had turned a blind eye at that little technicality. They were the Steward’s sons, after all.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
By the fourth hour, the attendants had rearranged the targets from the previous day, leaving only those rings that had been suspended from a post by a cord. Like the ring jousting before, ring-shooting had once been a training tool for the Ithilien archers, designed to train them to hit the eye of a _mûmak_ from a safe distance. For the competitors of the mounted archers, more traditional targets had been set up at the northern end of the combat fields, so that they would not hit the spectators by accident, should a shot go awry.

More than thirty esquires presented themselves as competitors for the ring-shooting. Most of them in the service of the local nobility, a few of them from Lord Hirluin’s escort, two from the future Swan Knights who originally hailed from the Morthond Wale, like the Ranger Anborn, whom Faramir had met earlier in the morning, and some even from the Morthond Vale itself, having escorted their Lord to the Council in Minas Tirith and given leave to come to the tournament. No Rohirrim had been inscribed; understandably enough, they all opted for the mounted archery. Faramir was among the youngest, although some of the local boys seemed even younger – but they were the sons of Lord Forlong’s forester, thus thy promised to be more than worthy opponents, after all.

The trumpets sounded, and the contending archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of the southern entrance. They were to shoot each three arrows in succession at each of the targets. The true difficulty of the task was ensured by the fact that while the first target contained one ring only, and one of the size of a small plate, each new one had one more ring, and those rings grew gradually smaller. The final one contained no fewer than seven rings, each of the size of a bracelet meant for a young girl, hung up in a straight line, so that an archer strong enough – and with keen enough eyes – could send his arrow through all seven of them with one single shot.

‘Twas quite the challenge for a boy of Faramir’s age, tall and skilled though he might be, more so as a good number of the other younglings ware years older and much stronger than him. Seeing his mild anxiety, Princess Idis, who had come with the other children to cheer him on, loosened one of her braids, untangled the bright green ribbon from it and pinned it upon his jerkin with a golden needle.

“For luck, she said, kissing him on the cheek. “Now go and show them how the Men of Westernesse draw a good bow!”

Faramir blushed furiously, and the older boys were giving him jealous looks, for truly, how many of them could say that they had gotten a kiss and a good luck charm from a real princess before the competition? But they had no time for teasing, as they had to begin the game now.

Every single one of the competitors managed to get the first target, which was a fairly easy one, at the first shot. The second and third ones were more difficult, and by the last target, there were only eight of the original thirty left. By then, they were all as highly strung as their bows, and thus more prone to mistakes.

One by one, they stepped forward to deliver their shots at their best abilities. Of twenty-four arrows shot in accession, ten flew through all seven rings in a straight line. The others, albeit they had not quite managed all seven rings, at least got as far as through five or six, and were thus considered good archery.

Of the ten arrows that crossed all seven rings, two were shot by Faramir and two by a boy named Derufin, who turned out to be the younger son of Duinhir, Lord of the Morthond Vale. He was only a year older than Faramir himself, but several inches taller, and his already heavy-set shoulders revealed that he had spent years perfecting his archery.

Now that they ended up even, they had to shoot again, to decide the game between them.

“’Twould be not fair to take another shot at the rings,” declared Lord Forlong, “as the one who is stronger, due to age and training, would have unjust advantage over the one who has the same skills. Bring them a traditional target instead and place it at the usual distance.”

The attendants carried out his order in a hurry, and Faramir, who had drawn a lower number by the previous lot, was called to shoot first. He took his aim with great deliberation, measuring the distance with his eye carefully, while holding the bent bow in his hand, the arrow placed upon the string. Finally, he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, he drew the bowstring to his ear, which was an impressive display of strength from a thirteen-year-old. Released, the arrow whistled through the air and hit the target within the inner ring, though not exactly in the centre. ‘Twas a good shot nonetheless, proving that he already had the sinew of his Númenórean ancestors, despite his age.

Derufin whistled in appreciation. Like every true bowman, he enjoyed a well-delivered shot, even if it was done by an opponent.

“That was a great shot and no mistake,” he said approvingly. “If you had allowed for the wind, it would have been perfect. But worry not; you shall learn that sort of thing in time.”

Saying so, he stepped forward, giving his target a good, hard look, and then released his arrow, which hit the target barely an inch nearer to the white spot marking the centre than that of Faramir.

Faramir bit his lower lip, disappointed and angry with himself, but determined to do better in the second and third rounds. And indeed, at the second time his arrow hit the very centre of the target, as he had followed his opponent’s well-meant advice and taken the light wind into consideration.

But Derufin was every bit as successful, splitting his arrow in two. Thus the final decision was left for the third round, and now both young archers prepared themselves with great care, hell-bent to win, whatever it might cost. Derufin even changed the string of his bow to make sure his last arrow would _not_ go awry.

There was great silence among the spectators when the Steward’s younger son stepped to the appointed station and bent his bow for the last time. They all knew the prowess of Boromir and were now realizing that one day the younger brother might reach the same fortitude, thus they were awaiting the last shot with great expectance.

Driven by the legendary strength of will that had enabled his forefathers to rule Gondor through twenty-six generations, Faramir bent his bow and released his last arrow. It hit the centre of the target unerringly. A great murmur arose from the spectators, for while the first perfect shot could have been a matter of luck the second one clearly showed great skill.

The greatest cheer came from the ladies’ gallery, of course. Little Morwen sprang onto the bench she had been sitting on, waving with an admittedly no longer perfectly clean handkerchief (sweetmeats could do that to clothing) enthusiastically and shouting in delight. On the Lord’s gallery opposite her, Prince Adrahil beamed with pride, and Boromir was looking at him approvingly, which was even better than the smile of Princess Idis or Elphir’s jealous looks. For a moment, Faramir felt like the King Returned, or even better, for what was a kingdom compared with _this_?

But the competition was not yet over, and now Derufin had his final shot. Duinhir’s son took aim with great attention and released his arrow, which hit the inner ring of the target; not exactly _in_ the centre, but closer to it than Faramir’s first arrow had, practically touching the rim of the white spot.

There was a great argument among the judges about which boy should now declared the winner of the game, for according to the rules it could have been each of them – or both. In the end, Lord Forlong intervened, vindicating himself the right of the decision, as he was the patron of the tournament, and he declared both boys of equal skill. And since the best archer’s prize, a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a richly ornamented silken baldric, could not be divided between them, the Lord of Lossarnach declared that it should go to Derufin, as he could put it to better use in his father’s forests, while Faramir was given a different prize: a well-quiver, covered with black leather and ornamented with small, silver images of the Rose of Lossarnach, an with it came two dozen fine arrows.

Faramir was more than content with this solution – he had no use for a horn anyway – and returned to the other children to accept their congratulations. Those included slightly sticky kisses from Morwen (due to some honeyed seed cakes she had consumed during the game, and which had completely ruined her appetite for midday meal), a warrior-style handshake from Liahan and some envious pouting from Elphir.

“It seems that my token has brought you luck, after all,” said Princess Idis with a mischievous smile.

“Indeed it has,” replied Faramir earnestly, his hand moving already to remove the green ribbon from his jerkin and give it back to her. But she stopped him with a raised hand.

“Nay, keep it,” she said. “’Tis only proper for you to have a reminder of this day; for you have ceased to be a boy today, and made the first step to become a true warrior.”

And she bent over and kissed him on the brow, to the great envy of every other lad present… and to his mortal embarrassment.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They watched the competition of the mounted archers with impartial interest as they had no close friends among the participants. Needless to say that the Rohirrim – having the best horses of all – won it with practiced ease. After that, they returned to the Castle for midday meal, which was consumed in high spirits, with songs and music and tales about great archers being told.

Priavel of Pelargir was called to the Great Hall once again, and this time he got his chance to prove that he had quite the repertoire of Elven ballads indeed. He treated them with the lay of Beleg Cúthalion, the greatest Elven archer known to Men (and possibly to Elves as well), which he performed in passable, though accented Sindarin.

The events of that day’s archery contest were also discussed in great detail, which made Faramir very uncomfortable, as he was not used to so much attention. ‘Twas no wonder therefore, that he became beet red when someone noticed Princess Idis’ token pinned to his jerkin, and now he had to explain how he had gained it.

“The keen eyes and the steady hand of a true warrior,” praised Prince Théodred with a broad grin. “I would say, he has earned both the token and the kiss fair and well.”

The rest of the discussion was drowned in general laughter and merriment, to the utter mortification of poor Faramir. Herumor, a great deal less shy himself, felt sorry for the boy nonetheless, but there was no way he could have helped.

“What about you, good knight?” asked a low, melodious voice. “Are you going to combat without the token and the kiss of your lady tomorrow?”

He turned around, surprised, and saw the minstrel’s girl singer standing in the shadows, barely more than a shadow herself, save the large, smouldering lustre of her eyes in the pale oval of her face and a few sparkling points of brightness, as the light fell upon the silver embroidery alongside the hems of her bliaut. She was in her finery again, as she had been singing to entertain the guests up to a short time earlier. There was something… unsettling in the quiet intensity of her presence, as if she had set her mind on a goal and there was no power in Middle-earth great enough to bring her down from her chosen path.

“What do you say?” asked Herumor back, feeling uncomfortable like a bird trapped under the spell of the mesmerizing eyes of a snake.

“They say a knight needs three things, and three things only,” the girl Dahud said, her deep blue eyes very intense and very bright, “a sword, a horse, and a ladylove. The first two you already have. The third, I can provide, with the token and the kiss for luck… if it pleases you.”

“I have no mind for such games as you play them,” replied Herumor stiffly, for she made him increasingly uncomfortable, and he felt cornered. “My concern is the combat tomorrow, and that I may fight valiantly and honourably.”

“That is why you need all the luck you can find,” she replied, unsmiling. “And is it not time-honoured custom for a knight to carry a token of his lady on his shield for luck?”

“You are _not_ my lady,” said Herumor, more harshly than intended. “You are…”

“Not a lady at all,” she finished him agreeably. “’Tis very true, as I am but a ‘prentice of a wandering minstrel, just one step from being his slave. And yet for the time we both spend in this town, I can give you the very thing you need – unless you are too much a coward to accept it, that is.”

“’Tis no cowardice to stay on the path of honour,” told her Herumor coolly. To his surprise, she took no offence, just laughed quietly.

“Oh, but you are so very young… I should leave you alone to wait for your upcoming battle unblessed by love. Fortunately for you, I am not that cruel.”

To his mild shock, she opened the uppermost button of her bodice and pulled out e fine silk handkerchief, creamy pale in colour and scented with rose oil.

“Here,” she said, tucking it into his belt, “for you to wear tomorrow in the _mêlée_. I shall seek you out afterwards to collect my reward – think not that you have escaped me for good.”

With that, she stood on tiptoes, kissed him on the lips boldly, and then she merged with the shadows anew, as if she had never been there.


	20. The Tournament, Day Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was desperately seeking for a different word instead of _mêlée_. So far, I found none other than “general tournament”, which is both clumsy and not quite correct. Should we agree that we ignore the fact that _mêlée_ is a French word and therefore should not exist in Middle-earth? ;)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 20 – THE TOURNAMENT, DAY FOUR**

After their well-earned two days of rest, the young knights gathered on the combat field to take part in the _mêlée_ – the general tournament, in which all knights fought at once. This was the oldest form of war-games and had once served as the main preparation for true warfare, in a time when years-long training like that of the Swan Knights had not yet been widely established. ‘Twas also more dangerous than single encounters, as the rules were fewer and less easily enforced. Nonetheless, the general tournament was popular, above all else by such knights who had not enough confidence in their own skill to defeat a single adversary of high reputation. In the _mêlée_ , where they could hope to meet opponents of the same skill as their own, they could still prove their valour.

The marshals of the field and their helpers had risen with the sun and ridden down to the combat ground by daybreak. There they made a list of all knights who intended to participate, marking their names according to the group in which they had chosen to fight. This was done to ensure that the opposing parties would be of the same strength.

Due formality demanded that Boromir would be considered as leader of one group, while Herumor, who had been second-best in the first day’s jousting, was named first champion of the opposing one. However, he politely declined, leaving the honour to Prince Théodred of Rohan, and chose to fight in Boromir’s group instead. Thus the group of the original challengers was split, with the Lady Aud fighting on Théodred’s side, while Lords Hirluin and Peredur stayed in Boromir’s camp.

The rows were filling up quickly. Around the second hour, about twenty knights were inscribed on each side, and the marshals declared that no more could be admitted, much to the dismay of several late-comers. To general astonishment, even Erkenbrand of the Westfold had arranged his mighty person in armour, to take his place among Théodred’s combatants. Apparently, the defeat of his daughter and future son-in-law two days earlier had dismayed him greatly, and he seemed now determined to “change the fortune of the Mark”, as his esquire put it.

“He will come after you,” warned Boromir Herumor, “as you were the one who defied his _cynn_. The Rohirrim take such things quite personally. Be careful, or he will run you over like a _mûmak_ – the rules of the _mêlée_ do allow that, and you are not half his weight.”

“I shall not give up ere the combat has even started,” replied Herumor indignantly.

“You will have enough other opponents,” said Boromir. “Choose them, and try to avoid the Rohirrim; your horse cannot stand a chance against the _meara_ s.”

That was very true, despite the fact that Herumor’s _destrier_ was from Rohirric stock, too. With his slighter build he was definitely at disadvantage in the melee, where it was allowed for two or more knights to attack a single opponent together.

At about the fourth hour(1), the whole plain was crowded with horsemen- and women, not to mention the foot passengers who were all hastening to secure themselves a good place from where to watch the _mêlée_. The galleries were filling little by little, ‘til finally the trumpets announced the arrival of Lord Forlong and his family. As this was the last game their young kinsman took part, the ladies appeared in full number, from old Lady Achren to little Morwen. The other children, being not of age yet, were again seated in the lower row of the ladies’ gallery, Liahan wearing proudly his fine new dagger earned as reparation from Lord Benniget of Gwenter.

Said good knight had joined Prince Théodred’s party, and so had Narion of Lebennin, both desirous to probe their skills, and, if possible, to earn themselves some ransom and thus even out their previous losses. The knights of Lord Orchaldor’s household, young Idanach and Captain Borondir (who would not miss the game, despite his broken nose) would fight on the side of their Lord’s son, of course, as well as Lord Peredur. Hirluin the Fair, too, had chosen to strengthen Boromir’s party, saying – only half in jest – that fealty was fealty, no matter the circumstances.

A very comely young man he was, Hirluin of Pinnath Gelin, only a few years older than Boromir himself, tall and slender of stature, noble-faced and grey-eyed like all nobles of Dúnadan descent, but with a thick mane of golden hair. Some people liked to think there had to be some Elven blood in his family – and he never answered questions concerning this fact straightly – although an ancestor or two from Rohan would be more likely. Whatever the truth might have been, he was a valiant young knight and already blooded in battle, thus a great asset to Boromir’s party.

When both parties were assembled at the opposite entrances of the lists, the heralds rode to the middle of the combat field to rehearse the laws of the tournament. Those had been established to abate the dangers of the day, as even a conflict maintained with blunted lances and training swords could cause severe injuries.

“The combatants,” they announced, “are _not_ allowed to thrust with the sword, only to strike. A knight may use a mace or a battle-axe, but daggers are forbidden. A knight unhorsed is allowed to renew the fight on foot with another unhorsed champion from the opposite side, but no mounted horseman must assail him. Any knight forced to the side so far that he would touch the palisade with his person or arms is vanquished, and his arms and horse forfeit. A knight struck down and unable to get to his feet again may be recovered by his _kipper_ (2), but in that case he will be considered vanquished. The combat is to cease as soon as Lord Forlong should throw down his warder.(3) “

“Any knight who disregards these rules will be stripped of his arms and his honour and sent away, sitting backwards on a mule and with his shield hanging from his neck, reversed, in punishment of his unknightly behaviour,” finished the older herald the announcements.

Having made this proclamation, the heralds withdraw from the combat field to their stations. The two parties of knights entered from both ends of the lists in a long, colourful procession, each displaying the colours and the coats-of-arms of their House – or that of their overlords. As a result, there was quite some black and silver presented in Boromir’s party, and a lot of blue from Dol Amroth, while Théodred’s troops displayed various shades of green, which was the background colour not only for the Riders of Rohan but also for some noble Houses of Lossarnach.

The champions formed a double line, facing each other, with Boromir and Théodred being the centre of the first rank as the leaders of their respective parties. Rather than riding the magnificent war-horse he had won on the first day of the tournament (the contribution of Théoden-King of Rohan to the festive event), Boromir had opted for his trusted old _destrier_ – less noble of lineage, perhaps, but attuned to his master’s fighting style. The Steward’s son was as determined to win this combat as his friend and now temporary opponent, the Prince of Rohan.

There they sat, the young champions of Gondor, terrible and beautiful to look at in their rich attire and shining armour, the blunted points of their uphold spears glancing in the morning sun, the streamers, in the colour of their Houses, flattering over the plumage of their helmets, waiting for the signal to begin the combat. Their great steeds seemed just as impatient, neighing loudly and pawing the ground with their front legs.

However, they all had to restrain themselves ‘til the marshals of the field rode along their ranks, controlling that only those previously inscribed would indeed appear on the combat field. Finding everything in proper order, they withdrew from the lists, giving the trumpets free to signal the beginning of the encounter.

As soon as the trumpets sounded, the knights lowered their spears and placed them in the rest of their armours. Giving the great horses the spur, the first ranks of both parties rode away in full gallop and clashed into each other in the middle of the combat field with an impact that would have thrown a stone troll off its feet, and the clang of which could have awaken the dead. The rear ranks of each party followed them at a slower peace, intent on sustaining the defeated, but also to follow up the success of the victorious members of their party.

The results of the first encounter could not been instantly seen, due to the huge cloud of dust that had been roused by the hooves of such many war-horses. After a short while, though, the dust began to settle, and the consequences as well as the continued fighting became visible.

From the forty knights, near half the numbers on each side had been dismounted. This either happened as a result of their opponent’s skills with the spear or by the heavier mass and greater strength of adversaries, having been simply ridden down, man and horse alike. There were those who lay limply on the ground, unable to rise again. Others had already gotten back to their feet and were sparring with their equally dismounted opponents. There were wounded on both sides, though none too seriously; mostly bloodies noses from the heavy fall, or disjointed limbs which would give them excruciating pain when being righted, but would not disable them for good.

The spears of the still mounted knights had been all broken by the fury of the first charge. Now they were closely engaged with swords, maces or battle-axes, shouting war cries (in the case of the Rohirrim) or fighting with clenched teeth and furious determination. The spectators encouraged them with loud cries like “Hail Eorlingas” or “Lossarnach for Boromir” and similar ones, depending on their favourites.

Even though the combat was being fought with blunted weapons, the clang of the blows and the shouts of the combatants were a fearsome sound to hear, mixed with the ringing of the trumpets, as the tide of battle flew now this way and then that. The shining armour of the knights was now soiled with dust and even blood, and dented on many places under the onslaught of the maces and battle-axes. The _kipper_ s of the fallen, together with Lord Forlong’s men-at-arms, had gone down to the combat field bravely to pull them away from beneath the feet of the horses, risking life and limb themselves – ‘twas a proof of their own skills that they had been able to leave the lists with their charges, unharmed.

On the ladies’ gallery, while the Lady Almaren watched the fight with glittering eyes and excitement blowing upon her usually so pale cheeks, and old Lady Achren sat, erect and dignified, on her canopied chair like the goddess of fate, completely indifferent and unmoved by any gentler feeling, Madenn was deathly pale on her other side, trembling with fear and clutching her sister’s hand anxiously.

“Who could unravel for me the riddle of men,” she murmured, barely audible over the battle noise. “’Tis not enough for them to risk death and injury in war. Nay, they must seek to harm each other and themselves in peacetime, too. And what for? For a prize that would hardly be worth the harm they might suffer.”

“They are men,” replied Achren, stealing a look at her suitor, sitting opposite them on the Lord’s gallery. “They are either _at_ war or preparing _for_ war. We cannot change that.”

“And yet you are relieved that the one you care for was wise enough to stay away from this madness,” said Madenn.

Achren nodded. “That I am. As much as I enjoyed the joust on the first day, I find the _mêlée_ little more than a bloody massacre. I am grateful that Lord Húrin was sensible enough to think of his daughter, rather than aiming for some foolish idea of fame and honour. I only hope that cousin Herumor will manage to get out of… of _this_ with all his bones hale… and that it would be lesson enough for the future.”

Her concern was not entirely unfounded, for Herumor had found himself in a precarious situation indeed. The strength of the two parties was still fairly even, although the ponderous strength of Erkenbrand on one flank and the mighty battle-axe of Benniget of Gwenter had been hard to resist for Boromir’s party. Boromir himself was fighting Théodred with his word from horseback, and while his _destrier_ was somewhat inferior to the Prince’s _meara_ , his skills with the blade were unrivalled and thus balanced out the slight disadvantage provided by an older, slower steed. They fought with great skill and grace, without the intention to do each other serious harm, but determined to win, to the delight of the spectators.

Herumor, in the meantime, had found himself facing the Lady Aud, and wile she had the advantage of more experience and a better horse, he had the advantage of being light and limber and lightning-fast. They were a match every bit as even as Boromir and Théodred, and they, too, offered the spectators a splendid performance of swordsmanship the like was rarely seen.

However, it occurred to both Erkenbrand and Benniget of Gwenter at almost the same time that they might turn the tide of battle to the advantage of their party if thy aided one of their leading champions against his (or her) opponent. Somewhat reluctant to affront the Steward’s son (and besides, they both thought Théodred would be able to wear him off eventually), they chose the seemingly weaker link of the chain, spurring against Herumor from both sides at once.

Herumor saw them coming from the corner of his eye, but all he could do was to rein Caenneth with all his might, thus eluding the charge of both his new opponents. Erkenbrand managed to hold his steed on – he horses of the Mark were well-trained for just about every occurrence – but Benniget of Gwenter showed less control over his own steed and thus slammed into the Lord of Westfold with considerable strength.

The huge blue roan of Erkenbrand could bear the impact with little more than a shudder, and even Benniget managed to remain horsed, although his steed faltered for a moment under the shock and the considerable weight of its master in full armour. However, this little mishap broke the rhythm of their dual charge, and even the Lady Aud had to rein her steed back, to that she would not get caught in the middle.

This still could not save Herumor in the long run, though, and he was now fully dependent on the strength and speed of his beloved Caenneth. Fortunately for him, the Lady Aud’s horse had begun favouring one of its hind legs again – apparently, that slip on the first day had caused more trouble than thought – and those of Erkenbrand and Benniget were both tired and a bit shaken from their near-fatal encounter but a few moments earlier.

Thus Herumor was able to keep his opponents at sword’s point for a short while, turning and wheeling with the agility of a young falcon on the hunt, keeping the other three as separate as possible, striking with his sword now against one, now against the other, and dancing away from the blows aimed at him in return. ‘Twas an impressive show of horsemanship, yet even though his skills left the spectators in open-mouthed awe, there could be no doubt that he would be overpowered, and soon.

“You should throw down your warder, my Lord,” said the Prince of Dol Amroth to Lord Forlong quietly. “’Twould be only fair to save so brave a knight from the disgrace of being over come by odds.”

“I would, were he not my own nephew,” replied Forlong, gnawing his lower lip in anxiety. “I wish not to be accused of favouritism.”

To his great relief, he was soon spared that unpleasant decision. Lord Peredur and Captain Borondir had become aware of the perilous state of their lord’s son, and, shaking off their opponents, thundered to the rescue like the wrath of the Valar. Captain Borondir rushed up to Erkenbrand and dealt a stroke on his head that left him momentarily stunned, while Peredur wrenched the battle-axe from Benniget’s hand and bestowed him a blow upon the crest, rendering him hapless, if only for a fleeting moment.

This was enough for Herumor and the Lady Aud to take their sparring further away. They were still fighting furiously, ‘til the horse of the shieldmaiden stumbled and gave way under the shock of Herumor’s charge. Rather than rolling on the field as most other knight would have been forced to do, the Lady Aud sprang to her foot gracefully, while Herumor slid from horseback to continue the swordfight on foot. In that very moment, however, Lord Forlong finally made up his mind and cast down his warder, putting an end to the conflict.

There were still some eight or nine knights standing on the field, but that was of no consequence now. The judges would decide whom that day’s honour belonged, based on the number of defeated opponents and on the splendid performances. The most important thing was that only a few of the combatants were injured and no-one of them severely, These now were escorted to the neighbouring pavilions where the healers could take care of their wounds.

Afterwards, there was a heated debate among the judges about whom they should name the champion of the day, for Boromir and Théodred had not had the chance to fight their duel to end, and there was no clear decision between the Lady Aud and Herumor, either. In the end, they came to a compromise. Instead of naming _one_ champion, all three young men were given the prize of a golden cup, which could be fastened to their belts with a chain, while the Lady Aud received a golden clasp of the same worth, adorned with emeralds, and their virtue was declared to be equal.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Thus the fourth day of the tournament ended in mutual satisfaction (save those who had been defeated, of course), and there could be little doubt that a celebration with much music, singing, dancing and ale would follow in the evening. First, however, the heroes of the day needed hot baths and some tender care from their loved ones to regain their strength for said celebration.

Not being allowed to do so for Théodred any longer, Madenn lavished all her concern and attention on Herumor, who was sporting brand new and colourful bruises above the ones he had been nursing since the first day. She bathed and poulticed him, dressed his scratches and rubbed pepper oil onto his aching joints, all the time ranting about the foolishness of young men like a mother hen. Herumor endured her fussing good-naturedly. He knew she needed to voice her fears – for him as much as for a past lover who was now forbidden to her.

Besides, there was nothing wrong with being pampered by a lovely young lady, every now and then. Even if that lovely young lady was close kin.

Midday meal was skipped, due to the aftermath of the mêlée, and Herumor ate in his father’s and cousins’ company in the parlour next to the kitchens. There were further negotiations about ransom with the esquires of defeated opponents in the afternoon, and when they finally all got together in the Great Hall fore evening meal and to celebrate, he felt almost rested.

Priavel and his attendants were called to entertain the guests once more, and they sang the ballad of Young Beichan(4), and other, more… questionable ballads, performed in various voices and with great skill. Spirits were high, and everyone was pleased and had a good time. There was even dancing later, much to the delight of the young men and women. Herumor was careful enough to stay away from the ale of the Rohirrim this time, and only drank wine, which agreed with his sensitive stomach better. That did not keep him from enjoying himself very much, though.

Hours later, when everyone else was either gone or too drunk to care, he quietly withdrew from the Great Hall, where the Rohirrim were just about to truly get into the spirit of celebrating, and returned to his chambers. Still in high spirits himself, he entered his antechamber whistling cheerfully – only to startle in shock when the lean, dark-haired girl stepped forth from the shadows.

“My token seems to have brought you luck, o noble knight,” she said in a low, melodious voice. “No I am come to receive my reward.”

And seeing the fierce determination in those deep blue eyes of hers, Herumor knew he would not stand a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Ten p.m.  
> (2) A _kipper_ “was a person employed by a knight, usually a vassal of the knight such as a slave, serf or peasant. The function of the kipper(s) was to follow his knight in combat and retrieve armour or arms from fallen adversaries. If the fallen adversary was not completely subdued and ready to give up his armour and arms the kipper would bang on the armour-clad opponent with various blunt non-lethal (hopefully) instruments, like heavy sticks or clubs, in order to knock him unconscious for the purpose of removing his armour and weapons without further protest. This was done because it was the right of a knight to seize the armour and weapons of a fallen adversary during tournament.” (information from Wikipedia).  
>  Of course, we would assume that in Middle-earth they only served to help their masters leave the lists relatively unharmed.  
> (3) A short, decorative staff, representing the status and importance of its wearer.  
> (4) This is an actually existing medieval ballad.


	21. The Tournament, Day Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is established in canon by the Professor himself that the men-at-arms of Lossarnach preferred battle-axes, but there is no actual description of their weapons. For the knights of Lossarnach, I opted for the pole-axe, as it seemed the more elegant weapon, while I assumed that the common-born men-at-arms of the Old Folk (both in Halabor and Lossarnach) used the double axe in battle.  
> The description of the pole-axe is a short amalgam of whatever I found while searching the ‘Net for background information. I could not point out any specific website as a source.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 21 – THE TOURNAMENT, DAY FIVE**

The flower of Gondor’s youth having done its best to prove their knightly skills and thus entertain the townsfolk, the rest of the tournament now belonged to the brave men of lesser birth. Meaning the men-at-arms in lord Forlong’s service, or adventurous young craftsmen or farmers from the town itself or the neighbourhood. Their weapon of choice was the battle-axe, which had come naturally from the simple household tool they used in their daily life.

Unlike in other provinces of Gondor, the men-at-arms of Lossarnach used the double-axe as their primary weapon at war, and were frighteningly good at it, the custom having a history of many hundred years among them. Even the sons of lesser noblemen got a thorough training in this traditional fighting style, and they usually wielded it well, not considering it inferior to the sword or the spear.

‘Twas not surprising therefore, that the fifth day of the tournament would be dedicated to axe-fighting, much to the delight of the townsfolk. It was held in two rounds: in the morning, young noblemen could measure their strength against each other, while the afternoon belonged to the common folk entirely. Lord Forlong had made it his duty to appear on both events, showing his respect and appreciation towards the brave sons of lesser vassals as well as for the good, reliable common folk. Those were the people who kept Gondor safe, after all. The higher nobility might have the nobler weapons, but these had the _numbers_ , and at war, numbers often have a decisive role.

The lesser nobles used the more elegant pole-axe, both for such mock fights and for real battle. The kind of pole-axe commonly used in Lossarnach generally had a hammer head balanced by a spike or a curved fluke, rather than an axe blade that the Dunlendings preferred. The top of the head ended in a long metal spike that was either rectangular in section, or shaped like a spear-head or dagger blade. The bottom end of the shaft, the butt, was protected by a metal cap, which was also often sharpened into a spike.

The head was fixed to the shaft by metal bolts. These bolts, triangular in shape, would project so far out as to be considered spikes in their own right. Most axes were fitted with long steel bands or strips, called _languets_. These ran down the shaft from the head on either two or four sides and strengthened the wooden shaft to help protect it from damage.

Often a was fitted to these languets, roughly a third to half way down the shaft, with sometimes a second one fitted a little way up from the bottom of the shaft. These were meant to give the hands some extra protection, which are very exposed when the axe was being used. Some were fitted with a leather strap or ring to prevent the weapon from slipping through the hands when being wielded and made it easier to recover the weapon if knocked from the hand.

Despite being considered somewhat more… refined, it was a wicked weapon, capable of causing great harm, and for that reason, only blunted weapons were allowed during the tournament, as Herumor explained to a very curious Liahan right after first meal.

Liahan, previously unfamiliar with the art of axe-play, had begged for permission to go down to the combat field and watch the competition. At first, Prince Adrahil was hesitant to let him go, but when it turned out that Lord Orchaldor, too, would be going there with his son, he gave in.

“Dol Amroth might have no need for good axe-men,” said the Lord of Halabor, “but the weapon is very popular among the Old Folk. They had used it long before our ancestors crossed the Sea, and the Wardens – the guards I have established to watch the walls of our town and to patrol its streets at night – always carry a battle-axe with them and use them with great still and success against raiders.”

“Who teaches them how to wield it?” asked the Prince. “’Tis an art of its own, or so I am told.”

“They have a renegade Dunlending among them, by the name of Mogh,” explained Lord Orchaldor. “He had to leave his people because of some old blood-feud that had gone out of control, when barely of age. He had already brought the skills with him, and after working for Master Smith Ludgvan for years as an apprentice, he became the weapons master of the Wardens.”

“Can you trust him?” asked the Prince, remembering how many times he had been asked the same thing about Andrahar.

Lord Orchaldor nodded. “He has proven his faithfulness many times. And he had trained my Wardens well.”

“Where did you get those Wardens in the first place?” asked the Prince. “It surprises me that any hale and able men-at-arms would seek out such service instead of going to war.”

“Alas, they are less than hale, most of them,” said Lord Orchaldor grimly, “and they have already had their fair share of war. I usually employ sorted-out veterans, crippled in battle too much for regular service. Well,” he amended with a smile, “’tis the Town Council that employs them, I just pick out the right ones for them. Those veterans, the ones with years of service under their belts, are those who serve full-time. The others, mostly young shepherds, fishermen or craftsmen, go home to their flocks or trade after duty.” He sighed. “I cannot afford to keep a small army all the time, but Halabor has been built on an endangered spot. The townspeople and the folk in the scattered farmsteads around town need protection.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Thus at the third hour(1) Lords Forlong and Orchaldor rode down to the lists again, to watch the axe-fighting of the lesser nobles, and with them went Madenn and Herumor. This time, all the galleries but that of the Lord himself were given free for the townsfolk to occupy, and thus Madenn remained with her father, keeping Liahan on her side, as none of the other children had come with them.

Some of the more venerable local noblemen were allowed to join their overlord on his gallery, among them Lord Benniget of Gwenter. This good knight seemed supremely content as one of the few _not_ defeated in the _mêlée_ on the previous day – even though it had been Lord Forlong’s warder that saved him from being vanquished by Lord Peredur. He had come wearing his best garment, in the company of a sturdy, confident woman who seemed a good few years older than him, but in full rosy bloom. Her dark green dress was of sombre elegance, made of good fabric and proudly worn, her head-dress taller and boarder than usual and seamed with gold string.

And while she was not tall, she carried himself so erect that she could pass as tall in any other company than that of a Lord of Dúnadan blood like Herumor’s father. Her round face, with wide, pale blue eyes, broad cheeks and a strong chin, revealed her as a daughter of the Old Folk, but her easy confidence spoke of someone of considerable wealth. Someone who was used to giving orders and being obeyed.

“My wife, the Lady Marcharid,” Benniget introduced her to Lord Orchaldor, and she curtseyed properly, rustling her ample skirts. “The lad is her eldest, Herveig. He has come to try his axe today.”

The lad Herveig, perchance a son of a previous husband rather than a by-blow, based on his fine clothes and confident behaviour, could be of twenty summers, brown-haired and dark of eye, with his mother’s board cheekbones and stubborn jaw. He wore a padded gambeson over his clothes and was carrying a finely made pole-axe on his shoulder.

“But where is Benead?” asked Liahan quietly, as he could no-where see his apple-sticking opponent.

“On his way home, to Gwenter,” replied Lord Benniget grimly. “I am still most ashamed of his deeds and thus sent him home to think about his actions, long and hard.”

The lad Herveig perked up his ears and grinned down at Liahan.

“So, _you_ are the little boy who beat him in good and honest fight?” he asked, obviously pleased about his favoured half-brother’s defeat. “Well, good for him – mayhap that would teach him some modesty, at last. You can cheer _me_ on instead.”

“I will,” promised Liahan, for he liked the lad instantly; Herveig reminded him of his second-oldest brother. “Though I fear I would be a poor substitute for a brother.”

“Oh, I do have a little lady here who will be helpful as family support,” laughed the youngling and pulled a richly-clad girl of some nine years forth from where she had been hiding behind the bountiful skirts of her mother. “Come on, Haude, be not so shy! He will not bite.”

“I would never harm a lady,” declared Liahan earnestly, although the girl Haude – an amazingly accurate copy of her mother, just in a smaller version and with dark eyes – did _not_ seem particularly frightened. On the contrary, those dark little eyes were sparkling with mischief, and she giggled. A merry little thing she was, and thus Liahan accepted to be stuck with her on the gallery the whole morning. ‘Twas not so as he had any more children to choose from.

“You should be going now, son,” Lady Marcharid urged her firstborn, “or else you shall be late.”

That was only true, thus Herveig made a deep obeisance to their overlord and his kinsman, then shouldered his axe again and went down to the pavilions that had been vacated by the knights for the axe-fighters the night before.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“The good thing in not being a knight is that you cannot lose all your gear when you get defeated,” commented Herumor thoughtfully, watching appellants and defendants greeting each other down on the combat field, and then beginning the axe-play with a good and valorous countenance.

He had to admit that it was an impressive sight of its own value. The dance of an axe-fight seemed to have a different rhythm than sword fighting – a constant swinging motion rather than a series of moves. The opponents gave each other wide, swinging blows, picking up the blow of each other with the shaft of their axes, and then bearing downward with the same single movement, trying to make the axe of their opponent fall to the ground. From there, they stepped forward, running the same shaft through their other hand and giving their opponent a jab with it, aimed to the face; or they stepped back, trying another swinging blow. This went on for quite some time, ‘til one of the combatants was forced to the knee and unable to get to his feet again, in which case he was declared vanquished.

“Nonetheless, they give a good performance,” said Madenn, as if answering to Herumor’s previous comment. “And Lord Benniget’s foster son shows some considerable skill, even as men of Lossarnach go.”

“Do you know him?” asked Herumor, watching the young lad’s graceful movements with a critical eye. Herveig was good at the axe-play indeed.

Madenn nodded. “He has had a bit of misfortune,” she said with detached compassion for someone well known but not truly close, “being born in and out of the wedlock at the same time. His father was Herve of Glanwenap, the lord of three fine manors near Gwenter; yet he had died ere Herveig was born, and could thus not acknowledge the boy according to old custom. Therefore the manors went to the Lady Marcharid first, by the right due to a widow, and with her to Lord Benniget, leaving Herveig empty-handed, as Benead would inherit one day that which should be his, had his father lived but a few weeks longer.”

“Ow,” Herumor flinched in sympathy. “That is hard. And unjust, somehow.”

“As life often is,” Madenn shrugged. “He bears it well enough, though. Has had near twenty years to get used to it, after all.”

“I wonder why has he not sought out service elsewhere yet,” said Herumor. “Sooner or later, he _will_ have to make his own fortune, as if he were a younger son. And one as skilled with the axe as he is can always find a place in some nobleman’s household.”

“As a man-at-arm, perchance; yet he is not of common birth, and it would be hard for him to serve as one, I deem,” said Madenn. “He is treated as a son in Lord Benniget’s house, used to give orders, not to receive them.”

“Still, ‘twould be a waste to have him lazing around his mother’s skirts,” replied Herumor. “I shall ask Father whether we have need of another household knight. If his foster father is willing to provide him with the barest necessities, we might find a place for him in Halabor.”

“I would think Lord Benniget would find it a small price to provide a simple armour for Herveig, if it means having him out of Benead’s way,” said Madenn. “Nor would he ask if the lad truly wished to leave his home and go away with strangers to another province. You are right, though. The lad would have it good in Uncle’s house.”

They were silent for a while, watching the skilled axe-play with renewed interest. Heads and heirs of noble Houses often visited such tournaments to pick up their men-at-arms from the rows of promising combatants, as no-where else would a man show his true skills, save in war itself. Herumor was fairly pleased to find such a candidate.

“Speaking of stray sons,” Madenn said after a while, and a hidden smile could be felt behind her voice, “you were gone early last night and late to come to first meal, looking as one who had but little sleep. I wonder what labours had kept you from your well-earned rest after such a splendid fight you have fought yesterday.”

Herumor gave no answer, aside from blushing furiously, and Madenn laughed.

“Oh, be not such a babe,” she said with genuine fondness. “You cannot truly believe that the dogged pursuit of the minstrel’s wild little girl has gone unnoticed? There was a great deal of guessing when she would finally make her move… Achren expected her to wait, but I knew she would grab you as soon as she got half a chance.”

“You _knew_ it?” repeated Herumor incredulously. “And you never warned me?”

“Why should I have?” asked Madenn. “You are a man grown, and I am not your nursemaid. Or are you trying to make me believe that you have all lived in chastity in Dol Amroth, for _years_?”

“Nay, we have not,” Herumor was getting mildly annoyed. “There was the _Fairweather_ and other pleasure houses, and the Prince made it abundantly clear that those were the places where we should… have our needs taken care of.”

“So you _do_ know how to give a girl a good time,” she said with a shrug. “Why would you fret so, then?”

“I… I would prefer to share myself with someone I _care_ for,” replied Herumor after a lengthy pause, avoiding her eyes.

“You did not care for the wicked little songbird, then?” asked Madenn with a smile. Herumor shook his head.

“She pursued me and captured me and bewitched me, and there _was_ pleasure, I would not deny that,” he said slowly. “But it has been what _she_ wanted, not something I would have gone for.”

Madenn nodded in understanding. “In your heart, you are a faithful sort of man,” she said. “There is nothing wrong with that. Next time you will know how to avoid such traps.”

“I will?” asked Herumor doubtfully. Madenn laughed.

“Of course you will. She caught you by surprise; you will be better prepared next time. But worry not,” she added, seeing his troubled face, “she will make no further demands. She has already had what she wanted and is on the hunt for new prey by now, I deem. I know her kind. Besides, the minstrel would never let her go, not as long as she can sing like a lark. You are safe enough – from her, at the very least.”

“And what about you?” asked Herumor. “It seems to me that Achren will be asked for, soon enough. Lord Húrin has that determined look upon his face. Are you packing your bags already?”

Madenn shook her head.

“Achren has not made up her mind yet,” she said, “Though they have talked indeed, she and Lord Húrin.”

“The decision might _not_ be left in her hands alone,” warned Herumor soberly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
How very right he had been turned out shortly after midday meal, when Lord Forlong called the whole family to his Great Chamber – a room that served both as his library and his study, aye, even as his private dining room sometimes. Being fairly close kin, Herumor and his father, too, had been invited to witness.

The presence of old Lady Achren _and_ that of the Lady Almaren at the same time would have been enough to alarm anyone in the Castle. The fact that – for the first time since Almaren had come to Carvossonn – they seemed to be in league, was more than frightening. At least to Achren, as she entered her father’s chamber, arm in arm with Madenn for support.

“Daughter,” greeted her Lord Forlong with a nod, “come and sit with us. We have your future to discuss, it seems.”

Properly warned now, Achren released her sister and sat down, stiffly and with her back every bit as erect as her grandmother’s. She could guess what had happened but was not willing to give in just yet.

“I cannot see what there might be to discuss, Father,” she replied with cold politeness, “Be it as you wish, though.”

“Lady Almaren tells me that Lord Húrin has asked you to become his wife,” her father, never being a man to sneak around a problem, told her bluntly.

“What Lord Húrin and I have discussed is our own business,” replied Achren icily. “Would Lady Almaren not always send out that wicked old wench of hers to spy on us, she would not be burdened with things that do _not_ concern her.”

‘Twas rare for a daughter as well-bred and well-mannered as Achren usually was to become this personal, almost rude, but the Lady Almaren’s thinly veiled efforts to get rid of her had been irritated her beyond endurance for quite some time by now.

“Is it true?” her father insisted. “Has he proposed?”

“Aye, he has,” replied Achren simply. “He was being very honest about what would await me in Minas Tirith, should I accept his offer, and I am grateful for that.”

“I am told you have not given him any answer yet,” said Lord Forlong, “neither aye nor nay. Is that true as well?”

Achren nodded. “Indeed it is, Father. I wish to give his offer some earnest thought first.”

“What is there to think about?” interfered her grandmother imperiously. “Lord Húrin is the second-ranking official of Minas Tirith, right after the Steward himself. Besides, he is rich, still fairly young and comely, too. What could you wish for more?”

“ _If_ I am going to wed him I shall wed his person, not his lands or his office,” answered Achren coldly. “And if I want to take my time to think about it, what business of yours is that? I am no burden for Father; the lands of my mother are my own, and my estate steward takes good care of them – there is no need to sell me off to the best bidder.”

“Or mayhap you have your eyes on someone even better?” interjected the Lady Almaren with sickening sweetness. “Young Lord Boromir is certainly a handsome man, and one who will rule the whole of Gondor one day.”

“For which reason the Lord Steward would never give his blessing to such a union,” said Lord Orchaldor quietly. “He would find a lady of pure Dúnadan stock for his firstborn. Either that, or a Princess of Rohan, should there be any of suitable age in Théoden-King’s family, to bind his strongest ally even tighter to his throne.”

“I know that,” said Achren, “and truly, I have no designs on Lord Boromir at all. He is too young for me, and he is married to his sword anyway. I would always be just a convenience for a man like him – that is not what I want.”

“What do you want, then?” asked her father.

“I want to be a wife who shares her husband’s duties and burdens, but also has his love and respect,” replied Achren simply.

“You can have all that, should you choose to wed Lord Húrin,” said Lord Orchaldor. “He is a good, honourable man, and a faithful one at that.”

“And I like him well enough to consider him a suitable match,” replied Achren. “I am not adverse to wed him at all. But I shall _not_ wed him in haste, just so that Grandmother can fulfil her ambitions or that Lady Almaren can have me out of her way. I am not a pawn in anyone’s petty power play.”

“Of course, inheriting the first wife’s spoiled brat would not make a marriage any easier,” said the Lady Almaren with false sympathy. Achren turned to her, addressing her directly for the first time.

“ _You_ of all people would know, of course,” she said coldly. “You have hated us – both of us – since the moment you first set foot in this house. You did all you could to make our lives miserable.”

“You were two spoiled, spiteful little brats,” replied the Lady dismissively. “Should have been married off years ago, would your father’s indulgence…”

“Enough!” Lord Forlong’s booming voice interrupted. “I shall not allow you to speak to any daughter of mine in that manner, woman!”

“My Lord!” the Lady Almaren rose, her face cold and white like ice, her jewelled eyes glittering. “You seem to forget that I am your _wife_!”

“And that is all you are,” Forlong dismissed him. “ _They_ are, however, my _blood_!”

“So is your son, my Lord,” hissed Almaren. “A son _I gave_ you, after all your previous wenches had failed to do so.”

“And I duly appreciate that,” Forlong nodded. “But that gives you no right to mistreat my daughters or to try to chase them away from here. This had been their home long before _you_ came, and if you cannot live under this roof with them in peace, I can always find you a far-away little manor where you can spin your web of intrigues as you please. Our son is old enough; he would not miss your continued presence in my Castle. So think about the risks you are willing to take, and be quiet, for this one time!”

His red face and blazing eyes made it abundantly clear that he meant every word. And the Lady Almaren snapped her mouth shut, for the Lord of Lossarnach, good-natured though he might be most of the time, was fearsome in his wrath. Should she raise his ire too much, he _would_ make his threat true and banish her to one of the small, forgotten manors, without her son – the only soul that meant anything to her in this place.

“As for you, Mother,” Lord Forlong turned to the matron sitting stiff and erect on his right, “I have asked you _not_ to meddle with the lives of my daughters the way you always did with mine. They have no obligation to continue our line as a son would, so leave them alone. Achren is right – she has lands on her own that can support her lifelong. The time she takes to think about Lord Húrin’s offer is her own.”

“And if she thinks too long about it and Lord Húrin changes his mind?” asked the old lady accusingly.

Forlong shrugged, “’Tis her own risk to take, too.”

“He will not,” said Lord Orchaldor. “Not for a long time yet. He took a liking to Achren at first sight, and he is not the man who gives up easily. Besides, little Morwen seems to support the idea, if what I heard from the boy Liahan, who heard it from Prince Elphir, is true.”

They all laughed, knowing that children often told each other things they would never share with adults. Then Lord Forlong rose from his seat with a groan.

“Well, I need to get back to the lists and watch the competition of the commoners. Are you coming with me, kinsman?” Lord Orchaldor nodded.

“I hope to find some masterless axe-men who would be willing to settle in our town,” he said. “They need not to be very young; we have more than enough widows looking for a decent husband, and the Wardens could use reinforcements.”

“There are some veterans, sorted out from the fighting troops recently,” said Forlong. “I shall send for them if you wish, but now we must be going, lest we shall be late.”

“I am going with you, Uncle,” Herumor sprang to his feet. “There is something – well, more like some _one_ – I need to speak with Father about.”

“Certainly, you can join us,” replied Forlong amiably, already on his way out. “The common folk fights with double axes, which is a somewhat brutal sight at times, even though they will be using wooden ones today, so that I expect naught worse than a few broken heads. But you can see what our people are capable of with the ancient weapon of the Old Folk, and choose from the ones who would be willing to follow you to Anórien.”

With that, he rushed out with a speed that belied his bulk. Lord Orchaldor and his son followed him without looking back.

After a long moment of frosty silence, the Lady Almaren gathered the heavy folds of her black gown around herself to make an imperious exit.

“This is not over yet,” she said to Achren warningly.

“On the contrary,” replied Achren with eerie calm. “It _is_ over… and so is your power in this house.”

She took Madenn by the arm again and left with her, right before the Lady Almaren’s nose, ruining her grand exit completely and with full intention.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“That,” declared Madenn, bending with barely restrained laugher, as soon as they were out of earshot, “was _evil_. I have never seen Almaren in such outrage.”

“Then my work for today is well done,” replied Achren with a very un-ladylike grin. Madenn shook her head in fond exasperation.

“You have certainly stirred up the hornets’ nest,” she said. “Methinks it would be indeed better for you to wed Lord Húrin and leave Grandmother and Almaren to their plotting and petty fights.”

“Mayhap so,” Achren allowed. “But I am loath to leave Father behind, torn between those two dragonesses. For if I go, you shall go, too – and whom will Father then turn to for a little peace and good care?”

“He will always have Tynellas,” replied Madenn simply. “Almaren may have separated them for a while, but in the end, Almaren will be gone, shut away in the women’s wing, or back to her own people if she cannot bear our life any longer… but Tynellas will still be there.”

“And that should make me feel better?” asked Achren, who could never warm up to their father’s former mistress. To be just to her, she had good reason for that – Tynellas was not the most pleasant or kind woman. Not to her, anyway.

“There is no need for that,” answered Madenn with a shrug. “’Tis enough when she makes _Father_ feel better. And she does that. She is better for him than Almaren could ever become. She always has been.”

“ _Everyone_ would be better for Father than Almaren,” said Achren with a snort.

“I agree,” said Madenn, “yet it is not our task to meddle with his life. You should consider your own choices… and do so carefully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Nine p.m.


	22. Of Horses and Brides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanky alert. It gets a bit… emotional in this chapter.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
****

CHAPTER 22 – OF HORSES AND BRIDES   
(THE TOURNAMENT, DAY SIX)

Regardless of the brave face they had put on the previous eve, neither of Forlong’s daughters slept well on that night. After a while Madenn gave up on trying entirely and got dressed again. There was always so much to do; with her grandmother and the Lady Almaren preoccupied with their private little war, the burden of running the household had been on her shoulders for years. Admittedly, Achren _did_ help wherever she could, but the servants liked dealing with Madenn better, as her mother had been one of their own.

As she made a thorough inspection in the buttery to make sure her father’s butler had not overdone with tasting the Lord’s best vintage, Madenn wondered briefly how Achren would manage Lord Húrin’s household, should she choose to marry the man, after all. But perhaps it was easier to deal with servants who had _not_ known one from the cradle on, she decided. And Achren was no weakling. If she could only make up her mind!

Madenn counted the precious drinking cups and tankards, too. Not that she would not trust the servants of their guests as a rule, but when so many strangers were going in and out of the house, one could never be careful enough. She had no concerns how things would be dealt with once she had left the Castle. Mistress Tynellas, whatever she or Achren might think of her, was a competent (and heavy-handed) housekeeper. She had managed to run things smoothly before. She would be able to do so again.

Done in the buttery and other adjacent rooms of the Great Hall, she crossed the courtyard to the kitchens to see if everything was laid out for first meal properly. The cooks were reliable, as a rule, but with so many high-ranking guests in the house, she did not want to overlook anything.

She was so deep in her thoughts that she had not seen the man coming from the stables. To be fair to her, though, the man _was_ moving very quietly, like a shadow among shadows, despite his large frame. Thus it was only understandable that she got a bad fright, when, all of a sudden, she heard a deep voice speaking behind her back.

“Still abroad, so late in the night?” asked the Prince of Rohan in Westron, yet with the slow, rolling accent of the people of the Mark.

Madenn pressed both fists to her breast to stop the wild hammering of her heart, caused by more than just the fright alone.

“Théodred,” she scolded him, “you will be the death of me one day! What were you _thinking_ , sneaking up to me like that?”

“I wanted to see you… alone,” Théodred took her shoulders and pulled her closer to him; she went willingly. “For nearly a week we have been here, and I barely saw you; certainly never without a crowd around us.”

“And that was good so,” she said but made no attempt to free herself from his embrace. “What is there left to say between the two of us? You belong to _her_ now, and what we had is in the past already. We must not see each other again. Never.”

“I know that,” Théodred sighed, burying his face in the fragrant silk of her hair. “Yet I could not leave you without a parting word – without feeling your warmth against me one last time. If only for this one moment.”

“Verily, my champion, there will be naught else between us than what we have in this moment,” she replied, breathing in his scent deeply, creating a memory that would have to last for the rest of her life. “You have never been truly mine, and now I shall have to give up what little of you I was allowed to have. Go, my heart, and leave me, I beg you. ‘Tis hard enough as it is; do not torment me with a fleeting taste of what I can never have again.”

She kissed him on the lips with all the despair and wasted passion that threatened to choke her – then she laid both palms upon his board chest and gently pushed him away. For a moment, she looked at him, drinking in the sight of his face, his entire being, before whirling around and fleeing like a deer with a whole pack of hounds on its heels.

It seemed, though, that this was one sleepless night _not_ meant to be spent alone with her thoughts and troubled feelings. For barely had she finished her inspection in the kitchens, she saw the tall, slender shadow of another woman waiting for her patiently on the gallery that led to the women’s wing.

It was the Lady Aud, fully clothed, just as Madenn herself, her long, hair flowing down her back like dark water. Apparently, there were more people having trouble sleeping this night.

“Lady Madenn,” the shieldmaiden inclined her dark head ceremoniously, “well met indeed. I have been desirous to speak with you – and alone – ever since we come here. Join me, if it pleases you.”

It did _not_ please Madenn at all, but there was naught she could do without insulting an honoured guest, and she was not doing that. The hospitality of Forlong’s house was legendary; personal feelings had naught to do with it. Thus she nodded mutely and did as she had been asked.

“First of all, I want you to know that Théodred has told me about you and himself,” began the Lady Aud slowly, thoughtfully. “Blame him not for that. ‘Twas his wish to begin our betrothal openly and honestly. We have promised not to keep any secrets from each other. I am to become his Queen; I can only help and support him if I know everything that is there to know.”

“You are very… calm about this,” said Madenn carefully.

The shieldmaiden shrugged. “What other choice do I have? Ours is a match forged by our fathers years ago, and while I have no objections – which woman who knows Théodred would have? – neither of us has been asked if ‘tis truly our wish to get bonded. Every son and daughter of the Mark is allowed to follow his or her heart when seeking out their true match – every one but the son of the King. Only he is bound to serve the best interests of the throne.”

“Are _you_ bound to do the same?” asked Madenn.

“The King and my father have decided that this match would serve the Mark best,” replied the Lady Aud, “and I trust their wisdom in this matter. I have known Théodred all my life. I know his likes and dislikes, his joys and sorrows, his plans, his ambitions – we had been friends from early childhood on. That makes things easier, for both of us. And he does not demand from me to lay down my sword, save the times when I would be with child, which is more than I could hope from any other husband.”

Madenn smiled, despite her private sorrows. The Lady Aud certainly was a woman who knew what she wanted – and made sure that she got it,

“You two shall be a good match,” she said, “with you being not his wife only but his greatest champion, too.”

“Mayhap so,” answered the Lady Aud thoughtfully. “There is something I cannot give him, though. Not now, not for a long time… mayhap never.”

“Oh?” Madenn raised a golden eyebrow. The shieldmaiden nodded.

“I cannot give him what he had with you,” she admitted. “We like each other well enough, but he loves you; he truly does. ‘Tis a wound I cannot heal. I am a shieldmaiden, and I have no healing hands. I shall do my best to make him content with his life, yet he has known happiness with _you_ , and that is something I might not be able to compete with.”

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Madenn. “Knowing that he will yearn for me for years to come does not make our parting any easier.”

“I know that,” said the Lady Aud gravely, “But I had been wrong about you, ere we came here, and I wish to ask your forgiveness. I truly expected you to try keeping him with all your might. And I know what power you had over his heart… what power you still have. I,” she hesitated for a moment before continuing, “I was willing to look the other way, for his sake. I am glad that would not be needed.”

For a moment, Madenn felt thoroughly wronged by the assumption that she might be ready to remain the Prince’s secret mistress. But then the true meaning of Aud’s words suddenly became clear to her.

“You… you _love_ him!” she said tonelessly. The Lady Aud nodded.

“I always have… since I have learned what love means... mayhap even before. He never noticed, though.”

“By the Old Gods,” Madenn breathed, “that is…”

“A twisted thing, is it not?” finished the Lady Aud with a sorrowful little smile. “I shall have everything a woman could hope for. I shall share his life, his power and his bed, be called his Queen. But part of him – the very part I would give up everything for – will always belong to you. Oh, he will eventually learn to love me, in a way – genuine fondness and shared duty can lead to that, and it is good so. He will never feel the same for me that he felt – what he still feels – for you, though.”

“Which is sad, for all three of us, for it only leads to sorrow, with little to nothing being gained in exchange,” said Madenn slowly. “I shall not stand in your way, though. I have told him that we must never see each other again, and we shall not. I am leaving my father’s town, soon, and thus the chance for us to run into each other unexpectedly will be very slim.”

“Where will you go?” asked the Lady Aud.

“To my mother, to Imloth Melui,” Madenn gave her a warning look. “You must _not_ tell him. I want a clean and honest end to this.”

“And I shall respect your wish,” said the Lady Aud. “I wish I had the chance to know you better. You are a brave and honourable woman, and I regret to be the cause of your loss.”

“I always knew I would have to get out of his way one day,” replied Madenn simply. “I was prepared… even if I had hoped for a little more time. ‘Tis of no importance now. What is done is done, and we both need to go our separate ways.”

“You are a healer, are you not?” asked the Lady Aud. “I wish we had someone like you in Edoras, instead of those wicked old witches who call themselves herb-mistresses.”

Madenn could not help but laugh, realizing to her own surprise that she _liked_ the Lady Aud. They could have become friends, under different circumstances. She regretted that it could never happen.

“Well, it would be a little awkward, having me there,” she said. “But I can let you know where I can be found, in case you should need me. Only you, though. Not him.”

She meant it. She would help the Lady Aud in any need possible; Aud was meant to be Théodred’s wife and his Queen, after all. But seeing _him_ on her side would be more than she could bear.

“I thank you for the offer,” replied the Lady Aud, “and if needs must be, I shall come back to it… without telling him aught. You have my word.”

“Then I am content,” said Madenn, for the word of a shieldmaiden was as good as that of any knight. “I wish you happiness, my Lady; make him happy, for both of us.”

“I shall try my best,” promised the Lady Aud.

They did not embrace or exchange the kiss of friendship; they were not that close and would never be. Instead, they bowed formally and parted ways, for a long time to come.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Achren had not gone with the others to watch the horse racing after first meal. She liked such races just fine, but she was troubled still from the unexpectedly harsh encounter on the previous eve, and longed to be alone for a while. It seemed to be and idle wish, though, for barely had the others left the Castle when someone knocked on her door – and not too shyly.

With a resigned sigh, she got up and went to open to door. She expected to find one of the servants with some household trouble, as Madenn had gone with Herumor to the races, but to her surprise, it was little Morwen, as bright and attentive as ever, standing on her threshold.

“I thought you had gone to watch the horse racing with the other children,” she said.

Morwen shook her head fervently, making her black curls bounce around her face.

“Horses are fun, but when there are so many Rohirrim, they will win anyway,” she replied. “And I wanted to talk to you while everyone else is gone and they cannot listen.” Apparently, the child had already figured out how things worked in the women’s wing of Forlong’s Castle.

“Oh?” Achren suppressed a smile. “Is it a secret, then?”

“Father thinks so, but I believe ‘tis no secret anymore,” answered Morwen with a mischievous grin. “ _I have_ found out, and the others will, too, soon enough, even though they are adults.” And thus slow, apparently. “So I thought I would come and talk to you before _everyone_ finds out and they start asking daft questions.”

“’Twould be better so, indeed,” Achren agreed, fighting back a laughter that wanted to get our very much. “What is it you wanted to talk with me about?”

“Father,” replied Morwen promptly. “I think he likes you very much… nay, I _know_ he likes you very much. I asked him, and he said so.”

“Does he now?” Achren could not keep the smile suppressed any longer, and Morwen nodded energetically.

“Aye, he does,” she gave Achren a studious look. “Do _you_ like him? He is very nice, you know. And a very important man in Minas Tirith.”

“So I am told,” replied Achren gravely. “And I like him just fine, indeed.”

“Then why would you not wed him?” asked Morwen. “If he likes you, and you like him, and our families are sut… suit… if they match each other, what is wrong?”

“There is nothing wrong,” said Achren. “I just wish to know your father better, ere I would decide to become his wife… or not.”

“You would have plenty of time to know him better when you marry him,” pointed out Morwen practically. “You would be together, all the time. That is what married people _do_.”

“Aye, but what if I find out that I do not like him enough to spend my life with him _after_ I have already married him?” asked Achren.

“’Twould be not so good,” agreed Morwen. “But you _would_ like him even more if you lived with us, I am sure about hat. When you are with us, he is always smiling. I have never seen him smile so much before. You are good for him.”

“Not even while your mother was still with you?” asked Achren. Morwen shrugged.

“I cannot remember. I was very little when she died. But Father does not smile much at home. He is with the Lord Steward a lot since Grandfather has been ailing, and Grandmother is always so grim, too… I wish you would come to live with us, so that I could have someone to laugh with. My lady tutor is nice, but she is too old to play with, and Grandmother scares her to death anyway. If Faramir goes to Dol Amroth, I shall have no-one left.”

She said it matter-of-factly, without complaining or trying to make Achren feel sorry for her. Nonetheless, Achren’s heart went out to her. Such a brave little girl she was, living with grieving and ailing adults in a grim, old house, and still able to keep her high spirits. She truly deserved some joy in her life, an ally who would help her to cope with that all loneliness.

And her father, that grave and honest young man with the noble face and gentle eyes, he deserved someone who would love him and support him as well. Achren felt sure that with a little effort, she could be that someone. Was it right to hold back, just because she did not want to please her grandmother and the unpleasant wife of her father?

“I tell you what,” she said to the little girl. “I shall give you father an answer ere you leave for Minas Tirith again. Would that suffice?”

And Morwen nodded in delight, apparently more certain about the nature of that answer than Achren could hope for herself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The others came back from the horse racing shortly before midday meal, talking excitedly about the great horses and the excellent competition they had seen. Princess Idis had indeed managed to win the race, beating even her own landsmen easily, as she had not only the advantage of a particularly fast horse (although not a _meara_ , they were forbidden) but also that of a lighter, more slender build and thus being a lesser burden for her steed than the others.

“She was incredible,” declared Faramir in awe. “I have never seen _anyone_ ride like that!”

“You should visit the Mark one day,” the Princess, her face rosy with delight, her golden hair cascading down her back like a wild mane, laughed. “You would see that there are many who are every bit as good as I am. I just have the best horses, being the daughter of the King and all that. Had the rules allowed me to ride a _meara_ , no-one would even come near me.”

“Oh, but that would not be just,” said Boromir. “No-one else would have stood a fair chance. No horse is as fast as the _mearas_ – unless the Elven steeds of Uncle Imrahil’s friend would be here, too.”

“ _Elven_ horses?” the ears of the Princess perked up with interest. “You have ridden _Elven_ horses?”

“Nay,” laughed Boromir, “Lord Gildor would not suffer any mortals in Edhellond, save the Princes of Dol Amroth, and I am not one. I have seen their horses from afar, though, long ago, during a stay in Dol Amroth.”

“You have? What are they like?” asked the Princess eagerly.

“They seem to be a bit fragile in our eyes,” admitted Boromir, “although they are certainly beautiful and very swift; also, Uncle says that they are a lot hardier than they look. The ones I saw were all white or pale silver; they prefer that colour, albeit they must have other kinds, too.”

“I wish I could see them, just once,” sighed little Morwen dreamily. Lord Húrin smiled down at his little daughter.

“You should have come with us today,” he said. “There were lots of beautiful horses, even though no Elven ones. I cannot fathom why you stayed at home anyway, knowing how much you love horses.”

“Verily, I love them a lot,” replied Morwen, then she added with falsely innocent eyes. “Even if they are just ponies… and old.”

Húrin shook his head in mild exasperation. “Morwen, we have spoken about this before; you are too young for a big horse.”

“ _Liahan_ rides a big horse, and he is even younger than I am!” protested Morwen.

“Liahan is in training to become a Swan Knight one day,” pointed out her father. “Do _you_ wish to become a Swan Knight?”

Morwen shot him a long-suffering look. “Of course not, Father, why must you always ask such…” she was about to say _daft questions_ but changed her mind wisely in the last moment, “such _strange_ things? I just want a proper horse ere my pony falls over dead from old age under me.”

“We shall discuss this later,” said Húrin patiently, but Morwen was not easily placated today.

“That is what you _always_ say,” she pouted. “Fine! See if I ever help you to find a wife again!”

At that, Lord Húrin, the second most powerful man in Minas Tirith after the Steward himself, became deathly pale with shock and gave a strangled cry. “Morwen! What have you _done_?”

“We shall discuss it later,” riposted Morwen and ran back to the Castle, terribly upset and angry.

Húrin stared after her helplessly. He could deal with arrogant Haradric ambassadors, annoyed Gondorian noblemen, he could outsmart intrigant courtiers and command the troops of the White Tower if needed. But sometimes his own little girl was too much for him to handle.

“’Tis not easy to be a father of strong-minded daughters,” commented Lord Forlong with heartfelt sympathy, while Madenn patted the poor young man’s arm encouragingly.

“Well, let us hope that strong-minded daughters can handle each other better,” she said and hurried after the little girl.


	23. The King and Its Falcon

****

CHAPTER 23 – THE KING AND ITS FALCON  
(THE TOURNAMENT, DAY SEVEN)

And thus the last day of Lord Forlong’s famous tournament – of which people would speak long afterwards yet, not in Lossarnach alone but in the whole Gondor – has come at last. ‘Twas also the last day of the annual summer fair, on which the horned King of the Fair was to be slain and roasted on a spit, in order to feed its subjects and to ensure the fertility of the soil for another season, and also the wooden falcon, the symbol of its short rule, was to be shot down from the Tower of Rollo.

Those were events no-one wanted to miss, and Derufin son of Duinhir, who happened to be a guest in the Castle, too, came hammering on Faramir’s door long before first meal, eager to go down to the horse fair already and take a closer look at the tents of the King’s Camp, where the archers were waiting for their chance to shoot. They wanted to take the other children with them, which made Lord Húrin decidedly uncomfortable, as he did not want his daughter to see aught that would frighten her too much but was loath to forbid her anything after their most recent clash.

He could not even begin to imagine how Madenn had managed to soften the little girl’s mood, but in any case, they came down to first meal together… well, to be more accurate, Morwen came holding Achren’s hand, who, too, seemed ready and willing to go down to the fair.

“Let us go together,” suggested Achren, taking Húrin’s arm casually. “She cannot see anything bad as long as she is with us. I respect the customs of our people here, yet I can live without seeing certain parts of them.”

Húrin was not going to let the chance of spending more time with his chosen one slip through his gingers, and thus down they went, children and guards and all, to the small lighting near the horse fair, outside the town walls, right at the foot of the Tower of Rollo. There stood the big tent – well, rather _stable_ , actually – of the King of the Fair, and around it, in a great circle, nineteen smaller ones had been pitched, yellow ones with dark red stripes, looking like large flowers in the green grass.

The competing archers, all arrayed in proper Lossarnach green and armed with excellent longbows, were standing before their tents, discussing their chances. Faramir found Anborn among them at once. For not only was the son of Arthod the youngest of all, he was also taller than most, due to the Dúnadan blood of his father. And he seemed happy enough to see he Steward’s younger son, too.

“Well met again, young sir,” he said in a friendly manner. “Have you come to see whether I am as good with my bow as my word?”

“Verily, we have come to see if the Ithilien Rangers are as good as their reputation,” replied Boromir teasingly in Faramir’s stead, his eyes twinkling.

“And to see if the archers of Morthond Vale can come close to the good and honest ones from Lossarnach,” added Herumor with a broad grin.

Anborn took no offence, seeing that all the young lords were doing was having some harmless, albeit to his expense. Besides, he had recognized Boromir at once and thought the future Captain-General would have every right to examine the skills of his men-at-arms.

“Well, good sirs, whether from Morthond Vale or from Lossarnach, a woodman’s mark and at a woodman’s distance I surely can hit,” he answered mildly.

“And a rabbit’s heart at a hundred yards,” said another young man, a few years older than him.

“My good cousin Ruathan flatters me,” said Anborn, “but I shall do my best not to bring shame to the proud name of the Ithilien Rangers – or that of the archers of Morthond Vale.”

“’Tis a shame that only the bowmen of the town are allowed to shoot,” said Princess Idis, a bit scornfully. “The Men of the Mark could teach them a thing or two about archery.”

“The Men of the Mark are welcome to try, at any other occasion but this,” replied Achren. “Shooting at the Falcon is a privilege of our own people.”

The sound of the trumpets interrupted their friendly banter. The gates of the Tower of Rollo opened, and out marched a well-armed troop of twelve Tower guards, in tight formation, led by Lord Nevenaur himself, the Captain of the Tower; a splendid sight of a man in his sable armour, and a knight of his own value.

Having been set apart from the other men-at-arms of the town since the days of King Aldamir (which meant more than five hundred years, after all) the Tower Guard was clad and armed like its namesake in Minas Tirith, rather than in the traditional fashion of Lossarnach. They looked alike as a basket of polished eggs, from the points of their spears to their boots… and an amazing look it was!

They all wore woollen undertunics and trousers, their calves and upper arms protected by applied pieces of chain mail. A short-sleeved upper tunic replaced the usual Lossarnach-style jerkin, above which they wore their breastplate, steel collar and protective shoulder plates, all shining black. The two pieces protecting their backs and chests were fastened together by thin leather straps. The breastplate reached down far enough to protect their stomachs, and a short frock of six or eight steel plates was applied to it. Brightly burnished vambraces upon their forearms and steel-plated leather gauntlets completed their armour. The elegantly-shaped, pointed helmets were decorated with the etched lines of birds’ wings on both sides where they covered the men’s cheeks.

The Guard’s oval-shaped shields were made of wood, covered with black leather and seamed with steal. They were adorned with the painted image of the White tree, just like their breastplates, instead of wearing Lord Forlong’s own coat-of-arms, for they were considered the King’s troops, rather than those of the Lord of Lossarnach. Their mighty swords were twenty-eight inches long, with a cross-piece shaped like the crescent moon, with a bronze spiral symbolizing the seven circles of Minas Tirith replacing the usual pommel stone. Their black scabbards were adorned wit similar symbols, or with long, winding bronze strips standing for the Great River.

As a second weapon they carried eight-foot-long spears, made of the wood of the ash-tree and with long and broad steel heads. These spears were not meant to be thrown; the Guards were supposed to thrust and spar with them. Held erect, as the marching Guards were doing now, the streamers fastened right under the spearheads flattered in the light breeze; and they, too, were black, bearing the image of the White Tree.

In any case, the offered a terrible and beautiful sight, and Boromir’s heart trembled in his breast with joy and pride upon seeing them. ‘Twas good to know that glimpses of Gondor’s fading greatness could still be found in other places than just in the Citadel of Minas Tirith.

The Guards marched out with even strides, and then parted, forming two rows on both sides of the Tower gates. Captain Nevenaur stepped forth, addressing the archers in the King’s Camp in a voice that sounded like a great battle horn.

“Listen to me, brave archers and you, gallant onlookers, for I announce you the beginning of the shooting at the Falcon, so that the rule of the Fair King may be broken and the crop harvest come to an end. Deliver your arrows warrior-like and bravely, for ‘tis up to you to end this year’s summer fair properly and with the blessing of Nurria, the lady of the fields and pastures, who is also called Yavanna in the Grey Tongue of our Lords. The one who hits the Falcon strong enough for it to fall, shall earn himself a large hunting horn, filled with twenty silver pieces from Lord Forlong’s own treasure chambers, to which I add ten silver pieces from the treasury of the Tower.”

That seemed to delight the archers very much, and they all looked eager to give it a try. ‘Twas not an easy task to master, though, Faramir judged. Not only was the wooden bird fastened at a height of almost a hundred yards, it was also on aside of the Tower where the sunlight would bother the archers greatly.

“They will need a steady hand and a keen eye, used to harsh light,” agreed Princess Idis, a passable archer of her own. “Do you believe your Ranger friend there might do it?”

“I cannot tell,” replied Faramir honestly. “I have never seen him shooting before. He seems confident enough about his own skills, though.”

“They all do,” commented the Princess, giving the men a measuring look. “I wonder which one of them is truly worth his bragging.”

“My coin is on the Ranger,” said Boromir, throwing a silver piece up in the air and catching it easily again. “What is your bet?”

“I think his cousin Ruathan will do it,” replied Achren, having seen the young man shooting before, and she pulled a silver pin with a ruby head from her bodice, adding it to Boromir’s coin.

“So do I,” declared Madenn, adding a hair clasp, shaped like a blue-winged golden butterfly, to the heap. Then she looked at Lord Húrin, teasingly. “Who would be _your_ favourite, my Lord?”

Húrin seized up the would-be competitors with the experienced eye of a man used to lead armed troops.

“Him, with the greying beard,” he nodded towards a short, wiry man with the heavy-set shoulders of a long-time bowman, and dropped his own silver piece into Boromir’s palm.

“Master Bowman Joevin,” Madenn supplied the name. “A good choice, my Lord; he certainly has the skills, having served my father for thrice ten years already. But mayhap he does no longer have the strength for a target at such distance. What say you, cousin?”

Herumor shrugged. “I am a swordsman, not a bowman. I have heard good things of the Ithilien Rangers, though, and so I am with Lord Boromir here.” Saying so, he fished three bronze pieces from his belt pouch and added them to the heap, with an embarrassed shrug for not having more to waste(1).

The trumpets sounded again, and – under the watchful eye of Captain Nevenaur, the host of the game – the nineteen archers formed a long line. Three shafts was each of them allowed to shoot, but nit in succession. Once an archer had shot, he had to wait for all the others ere he could have another try. This rule made the game all the more difficult, as their concentration was broken every time, and as the sun had climbed a bit higher between shots, the light was different, too, by each turn.

Faramir squinted and looked up to the Falcon thoughtfully. The target was small and high up, barely visible, even for his exceptionally keen eyes.

“What if no-one can knock the Falcon down?” he asked.

“They must keep trying, as long as they would succeed,” Achren explained. “But when they do not manage in the first three rounds, they lose the promised winnings entirely.”

Faramir nodded in understanding. Thirty silver pieces were a handsome sum of coin for any bowman; they would do their outmost to get the Falcon in the first three rounds. The question remained, however, if their skills would suffice or not. Like Boromir and Herumor, he counted on the Ranger Anborn, and wished that he could bet on the man, too.

The townsfolk had gathered in great numbers to celebrate the skills of their own, each encouraging their favourite with great shouts. And the bowmen of Carvossonn showed excellent skills with the longbow, indeed. Every single one of the first nineteen arrows hit the Tower very close to the Falcon; some even touched the wooden bird. Only three of them hit it directly, albeit without knocking it down: those of Anborn, his cousin Ruathan and Master Bowman Joevin.

“We have all chosen well,” declared Madenn in delight. “Now it will become truly exciting.”

And verily, so it did. In the second round, more arrows went astray, as the archers all tried to make their best shot at first, and many of them were high-strung and worried now. Anborn and Master Bowman Joevin hit the Falcon again, and so did two other archers, while Ruathan barely missed it himself.

Thus all probabilities were still open when the third round began, and the townsfolk were beginning to get truly anxious now. For though everyone knew that the archers would go on ‘til they have shot the Falcon down, not succeeding within the first three rounds counted as a very bad omen; and so far the stubborn wooden bird had resisted the best and hardest shots.

Once again, the archers seemed to have gathered their wits among themselves, for the shots were nearly as good now as in the first round. But only nearly. Not one would actually touch the Falcon, not even that of Ruathan, though his arrow had come very close. The people became very quiet, when, by the lots drawn in advance, Anborn got his last change – right before his greatest adversary.

He envisioned his target carefully and delivered his arrow with a fervour that would have killed a wild boar. The arrow hit the Falcon straight on the breast, making it waver; for a moment, it seemed as if it would fall. But the reluctant bird found its precarious balance again and remained more or less firmly parched upon its high seat.

Anborn murmured something tat sounded suspiciously like a curse in the tongue of the Dunlendings and stepped back, shaking his head in regret.

“It seems, young sir, that I am not as good as my word, after all,” he said to Faramir. “I ask your forgiveness for disappointing you.”

Faramir shrugged. “You did your best; no-one can ask for more. And besides, you very nearly got the Falcon. With just a little more luck, you might have won. You still may, in truth.”

For only Master Bowman Joevin was left from the third round, and even Lord Húrin had quiet doubts that the eldest archer could outdo Anborn’s excellent shot. Joevin himself seemed confident enough, though. He prepared his bow unhurriedly, eyes his target long and hard – then aimed and shot bravely.

“He will miss,” said Faramir, for his experience told him that the trajectory was not quite as correct as Anborn’s had been.

“I doubt it,” replied Húrin, a fairly good bowman himself.

And indeed, the shot was good enough for the arrow to touch the Falcon, even if not to hit it straight. However, still out of balance from Anborn’s previous shot, the wooden bird wavered again, swooning back and forth – and finally stumbled over the edge of its perch and fell like a stone.

The townsfolk cheered, relieved that the bad omen had been fended off, the trumpets sounded joyously, and little Morwen hugged her father in triumph, her anger from the previous day forgotten. There were some people, though, who argued that Anborn had as much part in shooting down the Falcon as the actual winner and wanted him to be rewarded as well.

It turned out that Master Bowman Joevin was of the same mind, for he insisted on sharing at least the thirty silver pieces with the Ranger. Everyone found that a very generous thing to do, and thus the competition ended in general contentment, with the Tower Guard performing a spectacular march back into their private fortress. Joevin and Anborn had been invited to dine with Captain Nevenaur and his officers, which was a rare honour, and everyone else was delighted about the outcome as well.

“Since the winners have shared their winnings, it seems to me that we should do the same,” said Lord Húrin to Boromir and Herumor. “For my part, I would like to keep Lady Achren’s silver pin as my share, if you two are agreeable.”

“And I shall have the butterfly clasp,” said Boromir, ere Herumor could have protested, “As I already know a young lady in whose dark tresses it will be a most beautiful sight.” And with that, he fastened the pretty blue and gold clasp in Morwen’s hair, who seemed happy enough with it.

That left the coin to Herumor who, truth be told, could use it most, and it was done in a manner that would not embarrass him, nor make it possible for him to refuse. He insisted on saving face by offering to buy the children some sweetmeats, and Prince Elphir was eager to accept the offer, which successfully turned the attention elsewhere, to the young knight’s relief.

“It seems to me, my Lord, said Achren teasingly, “that why you are willing to share your winnings generously with the less fortunate, you show no readiness to ransom my treasure back to me.”

“I _could_ be persuaded,” replied Húrin with dignity, “but the price would be very high indeed. For I would only part with the treasure of silver and ruby if I could call their former owner as mine in exchange.”

“You make a hard bargain, my Lord,” complained Achren, but her eyes were laughing.

“Surely I do, but what other chance do I have?” declared Húrin. “I have made a different offer in the not-so-distant past, and you said no aye, nor nay to it. Now, as I cannot hope to have that which I desire for everything else I own, it seems I must bargain my newly-won treasure for it, and hope that I would have better luck this time.”

“Verily, you must, it seems,” admitted Achren, “and I must give your offer some thought. Mayhap if we could negotiate the ransom in private?”

By then, Herumor and Madenn were laughing so hard they had to lean on each other for support. Boromir was grinning like a fool and rubbed his hands in glee. The children exchanged half-amused, half bewildered looks, depending on their respective ages and on the level they were involved in said negotiations.

“Lady Achren,” said Princess Idis in a royal manner, “I believe ‘tis time for you to cease tormenting this poor man, or else I might consider marrying him myself.”

Morwen glared at her in mortification. “Nay, father, you cannot wed _her_ ,” she protested. “She is only four years older than I am!”

Boromir patted her shoulder soothingly. “Worry not, little cousin. I am certain that your father would not change his fancy so quickly. But we truly must let them discuss this between the two of them, must we not?”

Morwen looked at her father with bright, speculative eyes. “I could go with Madenn watch the sacrifice,” she said slyly.

“Nay,” replied her father promptly, “you most certainly can _not_. Nor do I think it would be a thing Prince Adrahil would like Elphir to witness.”

“’Tis true,” Liahan admitted. “My Lord has forbidden Prince Elphir to go there.”

“And what about you?” asked Madenn. Liahan shrugged.

“He said naught about me,” he answered, “but truly, I do not wish to watch it. I would rather go and see the toy-makers’ booths again.”

“A wise decision,” Húrin gave him a few copper pieces. “Here; go and spend some coin, buy sweetmeats, get a belly-ache… that should be sacrifice enough for all three of you.”

“I can go with them,” offered Madenn. “I have seen this often enough. We can meet again at the time of the evening meal and try the roast goat together.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That promise comforted the youngest children about not being allowed to watch the sacrifice, and they went with Madenn and the guards willingly. Boromir and Herumor took Faramir and Princess Idis with them, who both wanted to watch the slaying of the King of the Fair, although Faramir would admit his brother later that the sight had made him rather… queasy. But he could not show weakness before the eyes of the golden Princess, who did not seam the least disturbed by the whole thing.

That left Achren and Húrin alone, strolling through the remains of the fair arm in arm. No-one was witness to their negotiations, but when they returned to the horse fair shortly before evening meal, Achren was wearing her silver pin again. And in the evening, Lord Forlong announced the entire Castle joyfully that his second-born daughter would marry Lord Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, before the end of the year.

They had not named any particular day for the wedding yet, as Húrin needed to speak with his parents first. But there seemed to be a mutual agreement that it should be done as early as possible, for Lord Barahir’s sake, whose fragile health might not allow the customary full year of betrothal. Everyone wished them well and was happy for them, above all little Morwen, who would not let go of Achren’s hand the entire evening.

When finally all the others had retired, Madenn went to her father’s chambers alone, to tell him about her decision that he had feared for a long time. Lord Forlong was understandably saddened but not surprised; he only asked his daughter to stay as long as Achren would be truly gone. That Madenn could and did promise him, and when she returned to her own rooms, she slept deep and well, like she had not done for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) As the Professor did not give us the exact currency of Middle-earth, I work with copper, bronze, silver and golden coin, respectively. Copper pieces have the least worth and golden pieces the most, obviously.


	24. Epilogue

**CHAPTER 24 – EPILOGUE**

On the next day the fair was over and the foreign merchants began to set off for their far-away countries. The dignified men from Khand and Harad were the first to mount their fiery steeds or patiently ruminating camels and to begin their long journey to the South, intending to visit other great merchant towns, like Linhir and Pelargir, along the way.

The rich traders from aforementioned Linhir and Pelargir had chosen a more comfortable way of travelling: that on the broad back of the rivers Erui and Anduin. They boarded their barges now, their earnings and purchases safely stored in the strongboxes, the sails set and blowing up with the strong wind, ready to turn homeward.

The small traders from Lossarnach and the neighbouring provinces brought forth their two-wheeled little carts or mounted their mules, or, the least wealthy among them, set off on foot, carrying their profits in a scrip swung around their shoulders. They left in groups, for ‘twas always safety in numbers.

Shortly thereafter the guests, too, began to leave, after having spoken their thanks and farewells. Lord Forlong saw each of them off personally, riding down with them to the Great Gate to speak the parting words properly.

The Rohirrim were first to leave. They shared the stirrup cup with the Lord of Lossarnach at the foot of the Treasure Tower, near the Great Gate, and left Forlong’s town as they had come: singing and laughing. Boromir had taken his leave from his friend Théodred by then already, promising him that they would go wolf-hunting in the White Mountains during winter – if not _this_ winter, then in the following year certainly(1).

Faramir had been invited, once again, to visit the Mark, soon, and he promised to do so, if his father, the Lord Steward, allowed. He meant it honestly. He could not know that more than twenty years would go by ere he would get the chance to keep his promise. And Princess Idis would be married for years, and the mother of several children(2), though that would not bother Faramir much at that time.

By then, Prince Théodred would be dead, without getting the chance to become King of the Mark, having defended the Fords of Isen heroically, outnumbered hopelessly but never faltering. And the Lady Aud would be gone, and Théoden-King slain on the fields of Pelennor, fallen in a great battle like a hero, like Eorl the Young himself, bringing shining glory to Eorl’s House, and the kingship would go to his sister-son, thus founding the third line of horse-Kings.

On the same day, Princess Adrahil and his troop of Swan Knights set off for the long ride to Dol Amroth as well. With them rode the Lady Ivriniel, little Prince Elphir and the boy Liahan. As it had been agreed, Adrahil took Faramir with him, who was happy to go, his precious books wrapped and stored away in the travelling wagon with their supplies safely; his newly won longbow he carried proudly on his back. His parting from Boromir was a sad and unwilling one, even though their grandfather promised that he would try to get Boromir down to Dol Amroth for _mettarë_ if he can(3).

Priavel of Pelargir and his attendants followed the Prince, much to Herumor’s relief, who was more than happy to see the dark little songbird gone. With a bit of luck, he would not have to meet the girl Dahud ever again, and that was more than fine with him. Aside from the embarrassment, the girl awakened a feeling of unease in him; a feeling that he could not explain, not even to himself.

For his part, he was about to ride with Lord Húrin and Boromir. Their way led to the East and the North, and the Steward’s son and nephew were thankful for the opportunity to join the Lord Orchaldor’s party of strong, armed men. Reasonable safe the roads in Gondor might be, ‘twas still safer to travel in the company of armed guards.

Little Morwen was loath to leave her newly found friends, Forlong’s daughters before all, but she knew better than to beg or to complain. Her father was an important man. He was _needed_ in Minas Tirith. They _had_ to go home.

“Have a little patience,” Achren comforted her, while giving her braids the last touch ere they set off. “I am still needed here for a while. But when the fruit harvest has been brought in, I shall go to Minas Tirith; to you.”

“For ever?” she asked, still not quite believing it, no matter what the adults might have come to an agreement about the day before.

Achren nodded, although her eyes were upon Húrin’s face.

“For ever,” she promised, “if you would still have me.”

Húrin cleared his throat. “I… they say autumn weddings can be lovely,” he muttered.

“Good for you to have finally made up your mind, girl!” exclaimed Lord Forlong, slapping his daughter on the back with delight. _That_ would have knocked a strong man off his feet, but Achren had apparently grown used to her father’s exuberant gestures long ago, for she barely flinched. “Of course, you must have a proper hand-binding ceremony, too. In springtime, perhaps.”

Húrin seemed to panic slightly at the idea, but Lord Orchaldor nodded in agreement.

“Aye, there is nothing like a hand-binding in the tradition of the Old Folk,” he said. “Númenórean rites are venerable and time-honoured, and I would never turn away from them. But those of the simple folk seem more… joyous to me, and it would be a shame _not_ to share that joy if you have the chance.”

Herumor gave his father a surprised look.

“Did you and Mother have such a ceremony, too?” he asked, trying to digest this heretofore unknown piece of family history. “You never mentioned before.”

His father shrugged and smiled. “You never asked, son.”

And thus they rode together up to Minas Tirith, where they said their farewells to Boromir and Húrin and little Morwen, and parted ways “til after the fruit harvest. In the early autumn, however, there was a sombre Númenórean wedding in the City of the Kings, kept simple and quiet for the sake of Húrin’s ailing father, so that Lord Barahir could perform his paternal duty. But in early spring, the loud and joyous hand-binding ceremony was held in Carvossonn, with all the merry rites of the Old Folk and music and dance and a rich feast. Boromir came to stand for the rest of the Steward’s family, and Herumor rode down from Halabor to stand for his father, and that was the last time they all could come together and be merry.

For after the hand-binding feast, Madenn said her farewells to father and sister and went to Imloth Melui to be with her mother’s people and finish her training as a healer. Boromir returned to his duties in Osgiliath and Húrin and his newly-wed wife returned to Minas Tirith to take care of the White City while the Steward was taking care of the entire Gondor. And after the Great War, when the King returned, they became a great support to him, just as they had been a great support to the Steward, all their life.

Herumor returned to Halabor, to his father, and spent the next thirteen years with learning how to be a good ruler of their town and lands and with defending the same from raiding bands of Easterlings, Dunlendings, Hill-men and the odd band of Orcs that dared to cross the Great River on ferries, despite the closeness of Cair Andros’ garrison. He did find a woman, whom he cared for, and he had to leave her to get engaged with a young lady of his own status, and he did so for the good of Halabor without protesting.

He and Boromir never saw each other again. Herumor was duty-bound to his town as well as Boromir was bound to Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, and when Boromir finally got to see Halabor, following a desperate call for help from the besieged garrison of Cair Andros, the town was nothing more than charred ruins, utterly destroyed by an unexpectedly numerous army of Orcs, and Herumor had been dead for months already, slain by a band of Hill-men when he tried to defend one of the isolated little farmsteads with a handful of his fathers men-at-arms.

Ten years later Boromir went on a quest, following a strange dream, and never returned from it. They say, his body was given to the Great River that carried him down to the Sea, across which both his and Herumor’s ancestors had come to Gondor. Of Herumor’s resting place there is no word, and where the ancient town of Halabor once stood, only blackened stone has remained after a Ring War, and a sad memento of the people who had lived and worked there for centuries(4).

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) It is established in “Of Snow, Stone and Wolves” and “Seal On My Heart” that Boromir went, indeed, wolf-hunting with Théodred at some point in their adult lives. There is no exact date of when this happened, though.  
> (2) As it can be seen in “Emissary of the Mark”, Idis would marry Elfhelm’s second-oldest brother.  
> (3) In Isabeau’s “The Best Gift of All”, Boromir indeed gets to visit his little brother in Dol Amroth for _mettarë_ , although a year later. You can either assume that Faramir was longer than a year with his grandfather – or simply accept the slight twist in the timeline, which is only fanon, after all.  
> (4) These last three paragraphs are practically the same as at the end of “Shieldbrothers”:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/668832


End file.
